


Move Along

by DrawingWithGreen13



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Basically DEH but with songs instead of letters, Connor Murphy Lives (Dear Evan Hansen), F/M, Heavily inspired by Come and Go so sorry if the structure is similar, Talk of mental illness, suicide mention/attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-04-25 02:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22259701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrawingWithGreen13/pseuds/DrawingWithGreen13
Summary: Sometimes lyrics can get into the mind easier than words ever could. Sometimes those lyrics open the gateway to said words and pave the ways for paragraphs and paragraphs of experiences one will never forget.(Or: Imagine if it's the same, only with a few differences. One of which being Evan writes songs instead of letters)
Relationships: Evan Hansen & Connor Murphy, Evan Hansen/Zoe Murphy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. Anxiety (Julia Michaels ft. Selena Gomez)

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a multi-chapter fic but I'm really bad at keeping a constant story line going. I'm really hoping I can keep this one up because I have high hopes for it lmao
> 
> I can't promise consistent updates because of how easily I get distracted, but I'll try to be productive with this lol

How many dust particles on average floated amongst a beam of sunlight leaking through a window? Not the most important question one could ask, but it serves to be a wonderful distraction to whatever's meant to be written on the paper in front of me. Just focus on the words, I tell myself, stop swinging the pencil around your fingers. You're not a circus act.  
  
But even the idea of a circus doesn't spark any ideas. I exhale, surprised to find that the dust hasn't choked me, and place the pencil next to the blank slate of paper. Anything, I think. Just anything. Space, insects, presidents. Songs don't have to make sense.  
  
"C'mon..." I mumble through my teeth. I sound like a moose or a big dog. "Anything. Nonsense is okay...c'mon..."  
  
But sense and nonsense are two sides of the same coin, and right now, the coin is sense side up.  
  
A knock startles the pencil off of the desk, making me grunt out a 'come in'. For a split second, my boredom is so intense I'm convinced that the knocking came from a hallucination within my mind to occupy the empty space, but then my mom enters my room, blonde hair frizzing up at the end of her tightly-pulled-back ponytail. It's exposing her roots, making her look as old as she probably feels. Her eyes are wild with concern and- is that a hint of guilt in her brow?  
  
"Honey, I'm sorry," she pants. I brace himself. She never has good news when she starts her sentences with a pet name. "I thought my shifts were done today but I just got a call and I'm needed right now. I'm so sorry, I know I promised we'd watch a movie later, we can do it tomorrow, okay?"  
  
I suddenly became aware as to why I ramble so much. Genetics; wonderful thing. Then it sinks in that my mom has to go back to hospital to work, leaving me alone for the hundredth time this summer. Probably more then a hundred. I figure I shouldn't be as bothered as I am, as the only time I willed myself out of my room today was to grab an apple from the kitchen and to pee. _I_ was the one who shut myself away. But something inside me still stings. Maybe I was just looking forward to watching that movie.  
  
"Okay," I deadpan. I had practised my flat-voice so no emotion can be given away when I'm upset. Mom seems content, if only or convenience.  
  
"Great. I'll see you later, honey." And with a kiss on the cheek and a small wave, she's gone. I sigh, although I'm not sure why, because my mom preforming her disappearing acts was nothing new to me. That's what I had to deal with for the Summer.  
  
I wince when I find my fingers colliding with the solid white block encasing my left arm as I try to scratch it. Speaking of Summer, this cast is another reason why it had become my least favourite season. And also why I never want to work as a park ranger again. The cabin was old and crumbling below my feet, the forests were too large and I got lost too many times to remember, and I knew no one there. Everyone felt like a phantom trying to possess me, trying to suck the life from me, even if they were some of the friendliest people I had ever met. Granted, I never had many friends, so maybe I was naive and they were assholes. The loneliness didn't help with my thoughts spiralling out of control every second they could. I thought, just maybe, time away from home would give me some new insight to life that I could cling onto to keep living.  
  
Thoughts always deceived me.  
  
It got worse; I couldn't stop thinking about how I was just escaping my problems. Not dealing with them like I should. How Dr. Sherman told me to. Like a normal person. Even though the realisation that I, Evan Hansen, am not a normal person had settled in a long time ago, it didn't make the words sting any less. And thanks to being in an area full of tall, sturdy trees, my arm stung too.  
  
It is exactly twelve PM when I look at my clock, though I don't feel like eating. My stomach is already full of guilt and disappointment and too many emotions to conceal with food. Instead, I sit at my desk again, pencil in hand beginning to spin around and around and around. Maybe I _am_ a circus act; I couldn't try harder to be a laughing stock even if I wanted to.  
  
~  
  
I have never believed in luck, or good omens, or anything positive, really. If the day were to start off with a positive note, such as finding out you have your favourite breakfast food in the cupboard, I would think nothing of it. It would just mean I would have some food I like for breakfast, and then the rest of the day would be standard, aka, bad.  
  
Hypocritically, I don't believe the same for the opposite.  
  
Paper on my bed and pencil twirling around my fingers, I've concluded that the day will be a complete disaster because I still haven't written anything for a song like Dr. Sherman suggested. And that's another problem; I take things literally. Like, I take _everything_ literally. Even if I don't, my mind always makes me do a double take to check if I _should_ take something literally or if I should treat it like a joke, and more often the not, the former wins. Dr. Sherman only suggested I write songs. Says it'll 'act as a form of venting', and even though I can barely write one creative sentence, I said I'll give it a shot. Now I'm hunched over a blank slate in my lap, biting my nails because I haven't managed to think of anything. He said writing takes time, but I'm meant to be seeing him next week, and I at least want to show him evidence that I'm not rebelling against authority.  
  
I jump when I hear my mom enter my room. Worse yet, I see her holding a twenty dollar bill between her fingers. "So, you just decided to not eat last night?"  
  
I didn't want to eat. I really didn't. My mind was preoccupied with trying to come up with lyrics and coping mechanisms for the first day of school (neither of which I found, by the way). I felt like any food that entered my body would only come back out from nerves, and that would distract me more from writing and coping. Also, I hate making phone calls.  
  
"Um, I wasn't hungry."  
  
I hate how mothers can see through lies easily. "You're a senior in high school, Evan. You need to be able to order dinner for yourself if I'm at work." She walks closer to me and leans against the wall. "You can do it all online now. You don't have to talk to anyone on the phone. I know you don't like the phone."  
  
I also hate how mothers can be aware of their child's issues, yet only offer the most surface level solutions to get rid of them because they don't know how else to handle it. As much as I've wanted to say that to her before, I hold it down and instead say "Okay, but see, that's not true actually. You have to talk to the delivery person when they come to the door. Then they have to make change. You have to stand there while it's silent and they're counting the change and..."  
  
And my words die off, because when I say them, I realise that I hate my unreasonable excuses the most.  
  
My mom's face reflects the same annoyance. "This is what you're supposed to be working on, Evan. With Dr. Sherman? Talking to people. Engaging with people. Not running away from people.  
  
I have a lot of responses to this, too. _I can't work on it if I don't have any friends to practice with. I'm not running away if I've never started doing anything in the first place. You saying 'people' three times doesn't emphasise your point any further_. I say "you're right, I'm going to be a lot better" instead, because I realise that being rude won't help. The look on my mother's face says that I said the wrong thing, anyway.  
  
"No, I know. I know you are. And that's why I made an appointment with Dr. Sherman for this afternoon." her expression looks brighter, hopeful. "I'll pick you up right after school."  
  
I raise a brow. "I already have an appointment next week."  
  
"And I thought maybe you could use something a little sooner."  
  
I really love my mom. I honestly feel like she's the only person in my life who I can feel safe around, like she won't throw me away the moment I frown at her. I'm really lucky to have a mom who cares for me the way she does. But every child has their parent problems, and one of mine is that I feel like my mom doesn't understand my anxiety. Despite being a nurse, she acts as if my fidgeting and rambling are side effects to some sort of disease she's afraid of catching, and tries to find cures before any baby steps are taken. It's incredibly frustrating, because if _she_ doesn't know what's wrong with me, how am _I_ supposed to know?  
  
She changes the subject. "Have you decided on what you wanna do? I can't even remember all of the things he suggested. Wasn't one of them writing letters to yourself? Is that why that paper's there?"  
  
"Um, no," I mumble out. "It's for- he said something about writing songs, so I'm trying that. I've...I've got some ideas."  
  
"Oh! Great!" she says. She seems surprised. "Remember to keep writing them then, honey. They're gonna build your confidence. Seize the day!"  
  
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I really do love her, but sometimes she says some ridiculous things. "I guess," I mumble dubiously. This seems to turn my mother serious.  
  
"I don't want another year of you sitting at home on your computer every Friday night, telling me you have no friends."  
  
Is she accusing me of being the reason I don't have any friends? Even if she's not, that's all I can hear when she says those words. _It's your fault you don't have anyone_. She may be right, but I still get angry.  
  
"Neither do I," I say, although it's more like a snap. I don't mean for it to be a snap. I fear that I've made my mom upset, but her mood doesn't seem swayed. In fact, she looks surprised in herself. Like a light bulb flickered above her head.  
  
"Hey, I know- you can go around today and ask the other kids to sign your cast, how about that?"  
  
The little bit of hope I had for her idea drops, along with my face. She continues: "That would be the perfect icebreaker, wouldn't it?"  
  
The only thing I can see breaking by doing that is the ground beneath me as it swallows me whole. Or maybe my second arm, because someone will crush it as punishment for me daring to speak up. Even with the faded shine in her eyes, I can't help my tone being flat and sarcastic. "Perfect."  
  
Luckily, she doesn't catch on. "I'm proud of you already."  
  
Unluckily, I've given her a false sense of hope. "Oh. Good."  
  
Soon before I know it, I'm out the front door and on my way to school. So, I've got a song I have yet to write, a mother who's expecting me to accomplish the impossible and an unexpected therapist appointment later today. I wish I could go back to thinking about dust particles.


	2. Hard Times (Paramore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally just the scene at the start of the musical when Evan first goes to school

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This m a y be the schedule for updating this fic but we'll see. Maybe it'll be quicker, maybe it'll be slower, let's just let it take its course
> 
> TW for panic attacks if people don't like that kind of stuff, as well as hinting at attempted suicide and Jared Being A Nob

I hate school.   
  
I can feel my body cringe in on itself at such a general statement, so let me specify; I hate the early rise I have to take to get to school. I hate the need to choose between walking or taking the bus to school, because both options offer too many negatives to easily choose one. I hate the crowds of students at the entrance of school. I hate the loudness. I hate the loneliness.  
  
So, yeah. I hate school.  
  
I somehow manage to push open the doors to the entrance and let myself in, swarming around the typhoon of students. The fact that I've only been knocked onto the ground once before still baffles me, and that was in second grade. The way that everyone stomps and pushes and yells reminds me of The Lion King, which makes me think that I'm either going to be trampled and killed or I'm going to find a dead lion on the ground when the crowds clear out. Maybe I could write a song about a dead lion.  
  
"Hey. How was your Summer?"  
  
And suddenly, the thought of dead lions escapes my mind and is replaced with a mountainous spike of anxiety. I don't know who asked me that; I don't recognise the voice. I don't even know if the voice was directed towards me. No one talks to me, usually. But there's a girl standing in front of me when I turn to face the voice, and she seems to be looking at me. I've never seen eyes this dark before.  
  
"My...?"  
  
"Mine was productive. I did three internships and ninety hours of community service," guess it _was_ me she was talking to. "I know; _wow_."  
  
It takes me a few seconds to register what's actually happening. A person came up to me of their own volition, started a conversation with me and doesn't look like she's being forced to do it. In fact, she's smiling. Very wide, almost fake, but she's making an effort to look like she cares. Then I realise what she said, and my eyebrows raise in admiration. "Yeah. That's, wow. That's really impres-"  
  
I don't get a chance to finish. "Even though I was so busy, I still made some great friends. Or, well, acquaintances, more like."  
  
I start to realise that the more she talks, the more her words sound scripted. My hope fades slightly, but there's still some hanging there, because of all people to talk to, she chose _me_. And the fact that she chose _me_ fills me with confidence.  
  
Fumbling, I reach into my pocket and pull out the sharpie my mother gave me this morning. Time to break the ice. "Do you want to maybe...I don't know what you're, um...do you want to sign my cast?"  
  
She takes one look at my arm and steps back. Avoiding the disease. Her eyes are wide with concern, though. "Oh my God. What happened to your arm?"  
  
"Oh." I didn't expect anyone to ask that today. "Well. I broke it. I was climbing a tree..."  
  
As my words leave my mouth, she starts a new conversation. "Oh really? My grandma broke her hip getting into the bathtub in July. That was the beginning of the end, the doctors said. Because then she died."  
  
I can't tell if the hallway tilts its axis slightly or if I myself stumble backwards, but whatever happened, the- _my_ universe was not ready to hear that. And I thought a story about _breaking my arm_ would be too personal. My mouth is left slightly agape with unspoken words for, I assume, too long, because the girl's smile is back as she wishes me a happy first day, then leaves.  
  
I'm left in the middle of the corridor to ponder what just happened. I was making my way through the school, occupied by the noise and the lack of space, and a girl I've hardly talked to before comes up to me to ask how my summer was. She didn't seem bothered by doing so, genuinely looking interested in what I had to say. That honesty cracked after a few sentences, but she still talked to me. Hardly anyone does that. The thought actually makes me smile, as crooked as it is. Maybe today won't be so bad.  
  
Then I turn to see her saying the exact same thing to another student, who thankfully looks a lot less confused then me. The crooked smile turns into a crooked frown.  
  
She didn't even tell me her name.  
  
I don't even get the chance to wallow in my misery before I hear a set of footsteps to my left, growing louder and louder, until they stop. I can't recognise footsteps usually, but I _can_ recognise who these ones belonged to before looking up.  
  
"Is it weird to be the first person in history to break their arm from jerking off too much or do you consider that an honour?" I hear, and sure enough, Jared Kleinman is there. For a split second, the fact that this is the first time I'm seeing him since the end of Junior Year overshadows the fact that he just accused me of masturbating so much that it broke my arm.  
  
"Wait. What? I didn't, I wasn't...doing that."  
  
"Paint me the picture," he says, then proceeds to paint a picture. "you're in your bedroom, you've got Zoe Murphy's Instagram up on your weird, off-brand cellphone-"  
  
I cut him off. I would have accepted the joke as it was, had he not brought up Zoe Murphy. He's spouted too many dirty jokes for me to be phased anymore. It's just that I wouldn't be caught dead taking them from him if they're about Zoe. If she overheard, or if one of her friends overheard and decided to gossip about it to her, about the kid that stalks her Instagram page because he may have a slight unrequited crush on her, I'd never be able to go back to school again. Even I wouldn't let myself live it down. "That's not what happened. Obviously."  
  
Jared looks at me like I'm glass.  
  
"I was, um, well, I was climbing a tree and I fell."  
  
That look changes into humoured confusion. "You fell out of a tree? What are you, like, an acorn?"  
  
Yes, Jared. Like an acorn. I straighten myself up. "Well, I was, I don't know if you know this, but I worked this summer as an apprentice park ranger at Ellison State Park. I'm sort of a tree expert now."  
  
I'm far, _far_ from a tree expert, and for a second I hate my mouth for making me say that I am. I just know that one of the other rangers said something about being impressed that I knew more about trees then he did, and I guess I'm still too proud of that moment to let it go. I don't talk to enough people to know if I'm worth compliments.  
  
When I look back at Jared, he seems unfazed. "...not to brag, but...uh, anyway. I tried to climb this forty-foot-tall oak tree." and, of course, that's the thing that catches his attention.  
  
"And then you fell...?"  
  
"Well, except it's a funny story," I huff, irony spreading a smile on my face. "because there was this solid ten minutes after I fell, when I just lay there waiting for someone to come get me."  
  
I feel Jared looking at me, waiting for me to continue, but the image comes back to me. I can remember it like it was a movie I just left the theatre from. How everything came back to life in colour, only to turn grey from the pain. How the grass was damp with dew.  
  
"Any second now, I kept saying to myself."  
  
How the sky was greyer. How the tree suddenly seemed taller then it did at first. Like I could climb it again. Like I could climb higher.  
  
"Any second now, here they come."  
  
"Did they?"  
  
How, even on the ground with a broken arm and tears in my eyes, I wasn't worth saving.  
  
"No. Nobody came. That's the, that's what's funny."  
  
"Jesus Christ..." Jared mutters out, and I shrink back because his tone makes it sound like he's thinking I'm an idiot, and since there's no way to prove that he does without me asking him, all I can do is go silent. I think talking about trees has opened the gateway to a panic attack, so I attempt to change the subject.  
  
"How was, what did you do for the, you had a good summer?"  
  
I'm glad I stutter no matter what state my mind is in, because Jared doesn't question it. "Well, my bunk dominated in capture the flag and I got to second-base-below-the-bra with this girl from Israel who's going to, like, being the army...so, yeah, hopefully that answers your question."  
  
It brought up more questions then answers, but I nod. Are girls from Israel meant to be conventionally attractive? Whatever.  
  
I see Jared start to walk away, seemingly satisfied, but then for some reason, that familiar wave of courage washes over me, and I take the sharpie out again. At least Jared _knows_ me. Maybe he'll take pity?  
  
"Do you want to sign my cast?"  
  
"Why are you asking me?"  
  
Guess not. "Well, just, I thought, because we're friends."  
  
Like a stab to the gut, he laughs. "We're _family_ friends. That's like a whole different thing and you know it." he comes up to me and, I think trying to avoid his annoyance, punches me in the arm with a smile. "Tell your mom to tell _my_ mom that I was nice to you or else my parents won't pay for my car insurance."  
  
"I will," I deadpan. I don't just use that tone for my mother.  
  
Then it's as if the entire hallway turns to deadpan. Or, rather, stillness would be a better word. Footsteps have turned into tip toes, whispers are quieter then a sleeping baby. No one looks at the source directly, but it's obvious that their attention has been drawn to Connor Murphy. I see him make his way down the hall, posture hunched and hair acting as a curtain around his face. The school is mainly light blue, so his grey-scale wardrobe makes him look like a beacon. By the looks of it, he doesn't want this attention. He wants to be turned off.  
  
"Hey, Connor," Jared calls. The beacon is now on full blast, dead in his tracks.  
  
"Jared-" I try to mumble, but my throat is dry. This isn't going to end well.  
  
"Loving the new hair length."  
  
"Jared, stop-"  
  
"Very school shooter chic."  
  
If words could deafen, Jared's would explode like a bomb through the entire hallway. Everyone, and I mean _everyone_, has stopped, and their eyes are focused on the frozen figure that is Connor. At first, he doesn't seem to be effected, until he turns around and the glare in his eyes sends daggers straight into my stomach. Connor Murphy is known for being scary, but very few have fallen victim to his death glare.  
  
From the corner of my eye, I can see Jared pale. "I was kidding. It was a joke."  
  
"Yeah, no, it was funny. I'm laughing, can't you tell?" Connor replies, voice as cold as my feet. With each word, his presence looms further over us. "Am I not laughing hard enough for you?"  
  
Jared takes a step back, closer to me, eyes wide with something more intense then fear. His bravado has dissolved away completely by now. I open my mouth to say something, unaware of how dry it is, but Jared beats me to it with a "you're such a freak," and turns away. Freak. My body laughs for me. It's not funny, but there's something in the word that I find humour in.  
  
Bad choice, body.  
  
"What the fuck are you laughing at?"  
  
My feet turn to ice. "What?"  
  
"Stop fucking laughing at me."  
  
I swallow, mouth still dry. "I'm not."  
  
"You think I'm a freak."  
  
"No. I don't-"  
  
Tunnel vision.  
  
"I'm not the freak."  
  
"But I wasn't-"  
  
He's getting closer.  
  
"You're the fucking freak."  
  
I'm on the floor. It's cold. I'm cold. His hands were cold. I didn't think panic attacks could turn silent, but here we are. I don't hear anything.  
  
I hate school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! <3


	3. lovely (Billie Eilish ft. Khalid)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The computer lab scene with a few differences (few being hardly any)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG MY MOTIVATION COMES AND GOES LIKE A GOD DAMN WAVE I STG
> 
> This one's a little longer then the previous two so I hope y'all are okay with that, guess it's the least I could do to make up for the time lmao
> 
> I really hope there's no inconsistencies in this chapter because I wrote it over the span of a few days please forgive me if there are lol
> 
> Also don't worry ab certain words in the song, ik they're not the same as in the musical, you'll see why later : )

_Dear Evan Hansen..._  
  
Today was a disaster. I'd use a bigger word if I could think of one. I knew the first day of school was going to be a war, but I didn't know it would be freaking World War Two. I wonder if I can fit any of this into a song:  
  
After lying to my mom about writing something for my therapist, feeling like I just got socially dumped by a girl who I now know is Alana Beck and getting a panic attack by reciting my summer to Jared, I got pushed to the floor by Connor Murphy. Everything moved in slow motion, but I could still feel everyone looking at me as I lay there. No one offered to help me. They must have realised I wasn't worth the effort.  
  
Most of them.  
  
Then someone came and offered me a hand. An angel, some stupid part of my brain thought. Maybe I got a concussion from the fall. It was Zoe Murphy, though, so maybe not. Of all people, it was her. She came to help me.  
  
"Hey, I'm sorry about my brother," she said. "I saw him push you. He's a psychopath. Evan, right?"  
  
She came to help me because of her brother, of course, but I'll take what I can get. "Evan?"  
  
"That's your name...?"  
  
"Oh. Yes. Evan. It's Evan. Sorry."  
  
The rest of the conversation was a bullet point list of How To Make Your Crush Avoid You, complete with me rambling, trying to convince Zoe that I love jazz (not all jazz but definitely jazz band jazz because she's in the jazz band) and failing to grab another signature for my cast. Also a lot of apologising, but that's to be expected with Mr Evan Hansen. And then I spent most of the rest of the day breezing through a panic attack. Oh, and the bread for my sandwiches were stale.  
  
Now I'm in the computer lab with the words _Dear Evan Hansen_ written in front of me on a screen (paper wasn't working for me.)  
  
So, yeah. Today was a fucking disaster.  
  
I figured I'd start a song like a letter. People say I have a creative mind, but I think the most creative my mind can get is imagining the look on peoples' faces as they see me flunk a test and unintentionally plagiarising stuff (I swear there's a P!nk song that sounds like a letter), so I doubt my creativity would let me think of anything else besides a boring letter.  
  
But the more I try to form words, they fall apart the moment they show up on the screen. There's something in my brain and my hands that's preventing me from being honest about my feelings. What if Dr Sherman thinks I'm exaggerating and accuses me of lying about needing therapy? What if mom sees it and gets even more worried, and sends me to a psych hospital? What if a student finds it and accuses me of being a creep for going into so much detail about my problems and runs away with it? I can't let any of those happen.  
  
Not like they would. Anxiety is a bitch.  
  
I sigh and decide to give up for a few minutes. I look to my left and stare out the window at the buses waiting for students to fill them. What do bus drivers do in their spare time? Do they spend time with their families? Do they _also_ have an ongoing crisis about how they want to be noticed but also left alone? Maybe I should become a bus driver when I'm older. I wouldn't have to worry about my resume. All it would need is for me to say I'm some loser nobody who's only worry would be slamming on the breaks too much because of oncoming cars.  
  
Slamming on the breaks...  
  
I feel the light bulb flicker above me, and I start typing. The words no longer fall apart in front of me. They're forming walls and towers.  
  
_I've learned to slam on the breaks  
Before I even turn the key  
Before I make the mistake  
Before I start with the worst of me_  
  
And then those towers crumble. Reading and re-reading the words makes me realise just how sad my life is. I've learned to slam on the breaks before I turn the key? I've taught myself to be cautious of everything before I even get in the car. How pathetic is that? But I guess it's what Dr Sherman wants. It's a song, or at least part of it.  
  
Suddenly, my phone rings. I answer it, and feel a pit in my stomach as I read the contact name.  
  
"Shit, honey," says my mom. "I know I was supposed to pick you up for your appointment, I'm stuck at work. Erica called in with the flu and I'm the only other nurse's aide on today, so I volunteered to pick up her shift."  
  
"It's fine."  
  
"It's just, they announced more budget cuts this morning, so anything I can do to to show that I'm, you know, a team player..."  
  
"It's fine. I'll take the bus."  
  
In my head, it isn't fine, and I want to tell her that I wish she'd come and see me because I miss her, but she isn't being selfish. She's doing this for both of us. If anything, I'm being the selfish one by wanting her to come pick me up. I should be used to this by now.  
  
"Perfect," she says, sounding relieved. "That's perfect. Oh, and I'm going straight from here to class, so I won't be home until late, so please eat something. We've got those Trader Joe's dumplings in the freezer..."  
  
I don't like those dumplings. "Maybe."  
  
"Did you write that song yet? Dr Sherman's expecting you to have one. What genre are you thinking of?"  
  
"I don't know," I fiddle with my t-shirt. "And- yeah, I've written one. I'm printing it out now."  
  
This is actually a lie. All I've got is the chorus, and I don't think that's what Dr Sherman wants to see. Based on his tone, I think he wants me to write uplifting songs too. The thought of that actually makes me sneer. But my mom doesn't want to hear any of that. Honestly, I don't either.  
  
"I hope it was a good day, sweetheart."  
  
"It was. It was really great."  
  
"Great. That's great. I hope it's the beginning of a great year. I think we both could use one of those, huh?"  
  
This is all our conversations come to. The last time we talked about something not related to hospitals or therapy or making sure I eat enough was probably the middle of summer, and even then I can't remember if it was something pleasant or her being worried for me. I know that's a mother's job, to worry about her kid, but that's adding onto the worry I do for myself. She's wasting worry on me, when I already pump out more than I need to. And it doesn't help that I'm always lying to her. It wasn't a great day. It's not going to be a great day, or week, or even year. It never is. Because I'm a part of them.  
  
I open my mouth to reply, but she's already beat me to it, saying she needs to go. She hangs up before I can say goodbye.  
  
I stare at the computer screen again. The words don't sit right. They feel like I've exposed myself to the world and now everyone will know about the stuff that makes me broken. It's only four lines, but they feel like four lines too many. I want to delete them. I don't want anyone to look at them. But I can't stand another of Dr Sherman's looks of disappointment.  
  
I need to write more before I see him.   
  
My mind wanders back to Ellison Park. It always does when I feel hopeless. It's the only image I can see. Me on the ground, arm out of view, wondering when someone's going to find me. In a lot of ways, I'm like a tree. Whenever I fall, no one is around to hear it, so I don't make a sound.  
  
I start typing again.  
  
_When you're falling in a forest  
And there's nobody around  
Do you ever really crash  
Or even make a sound_  
  
It's still not positive, but I only have about ten minutes before the last bell of the day, so it's all I can do. I hit print and wait for the world to end.  
  
Maybe I'm less like a tree then I thought. I'm not big and people don't really notice me. I'm not striking; I'm short and dumpy and I don't tower above everyone. I don't really give anyone anything they need to survive. If anything, I _cause_ problems for people. If I were a tree, I'd be one of those trees that become loose at the roots and start to fall towards a house and eventually crush it. I'm a rotting tree. Yeah. That's a good way to describe me.  
  
People also don't climb up me, obviously, and I prefer it that way. The idea of there being constant attention on me is enough to make me want to vomit. Thinking about it right now is making my mouth salivate. I spend most of my life out of the spotlight, away from everyone, sometimes being forgotten by my own teachers, and for the most part I'm okay with that. I don't think I'd ever be able to live up to what people expect of me if they had any expectations to begin with. What would happen if I did something they didn't like and I'd make a fool of myself? What if I did worse? They would throw me to the wolves. They've already done that to people like Connor Murphy, so who's to say they'll do anything different with me?  
  
Connor Murphy. I've never talked to him before today, but I've always known his presence ever since he first started coming to this school. Everyone has. He's tall, lanky, dark, intimidating. It's hard to tell if he ever means to give off that aura, but it happens nonetheless. I don't know if he has any friends; he seems pretty lonely. I wonder if he'd want to be my friend.  
  
He called me a freak, so probably not.  
  
Sighing, I turn off my laptop, slip it into my backpack, and prepare myself for the walk of shame to my therapist. At least I won't be _completely _alone.  
  
But before I can even take a step forward, I'm stopped by another person in the lab. He was so quiet I can't help but feel spooked, like he's a ghost. And the fact that the person in front of me is Connor Murphy only solidifies that idea more. My feet go cold.  
  
"So..." he starts, to my surprise. "What happened to your arm?"  
  
I expect him to confront me about earlier. Reinforce how much of a freak I am. Remind me that I shouldn't laugh at him. Maybe even apologise. But he seems to be preoccupied with my arm instead. Or maybe this is his way of apologising.  
  
I swallow. "Oh, I, um...fell out of a tree, actually."  
  
Connor raises a brow at that. "You...fell out of a tree?"  
  
I just shrug and nod. It's all I can do. Connor seems to be humoured by this.  
  
"That is just the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard, oh my God."  
  
I guess he's right. There's nothing more sad then waiting on the ground with a broken arm for someone to come find you and take you to the hospital instead of getting up and walking there yourself. Maybe he's been through something similar? Why else would he find that funny? To make fun of me, maybe, but I don't think there's anything worse then being called a school shooter. Still, I can't help but laugh along.  
  
"I know."  
  
"No one's, um, signed your cast."  
  
I look down at my arm. Fresh as a new snow fall. "No, I know."  
  
"I'll sign it."  
  
Is that why he came here? To sign my cast? Was he thinking of me the entire day? I'm so taken aback that I almost forget to respond. "Oh, um...you don't have to."  
  
"Do you have a sharpie?"  
  
I suddenly don't want anyone to sign my cast. I feel sick for thinking it, but I don't know if I trust Connor to mark me with his name. Nothing against him personally, but there's an air about him that makes me feel like something bad's going to happen if he all but leaves me alone. Like a bad omen. But no matter how I feel, I see him waiting for a response, grip on his messenger bag tight. His knuckles are almost white.  
  
Reluctantly, I take the sharpie out and hand it to Connor. He takes it just as reluctantly, but hoists my arm up, making me mumble an 'ow'. He gives me an apologetic look and starts writing on my cast.  
  
To my dismay, his handwriting is very big and takes up about 50% of my cast. Somehow, it feels exactly like how I thought Connor would write. I try to not let the annoyance show on my face as shaky capital letters that spell CONNOR are branded onto my arm.  
  
"Oh, great. Thanks."  
  
Then Connor hits me with a surprise. "Now we can both pretend we have friends."  
  
Part of Connor scares me. How he knew where to find me. How he seems to know how my mind works better then I do. It's like he's linked to me, and knows how my insides work. I don't like it. Yet, at the same time, it's almost comforting to know that there's someone else out there who knows what it's like to be this lonely. And he's not wrong; pretending can be fun.  
  
"Good point."  
  
We laugh a little more as I take back the sharpie and pack up to leave, but I don't make it far before Connor stops me. "Is this yours? I found it on the printer."  
  
Suddenly, I don't feel so good. I slowly turn, and I see him holding a piece of paper out to me.  
  
" 'Dear Evan Hansen'. That's you, right?"  
  
My feet turn the floor into an ice rink. How could I forget about the song? That's the whole reason I came in here. And it's not just the fact that someone I don't know saw it. It's not the fact that it's someone I don't want to see it _has_ seen it. It's not the fact that it's Connor Murphy who saw it. It's the fact that Connor Murphy saw it after I realised just how much he knows me already. He knows how fucked up and sad I am, and now that some of that is on paper, he can get the clearest idea of it.  
  
"Oh, that's just a stupid-" my hands are shaking. "It's a poem I had to write for a, um, for an assignment..."  
  
I hold my hands out to take it back, but I can see Connor's eyes scanning each and every word. It's not long before I see the shift in his expression.  
  
"Is this some kind of joke?"  
  
I raise a brow. "H-huh?"  
  
"' Before I start with the worst of me' ...you wrote this about me."  
  
I step back, baffled. "What?  
  
"You saw that I was the only other person in the computer lab, so you wrote this and you printed it out so that I would find it."  
  
"Why would I do that-" but Connor continues.  
  
"So that I would read some creepy shit you wrote about how much of a psychotic _loser_ I am and freak out, right? And then you can tell everyone that I'm crazy, _right_?"  
  
I have no idea how he's getting all of this from what I wrote, and his panicked tone is making me feel worse. "No- wait, I don't even- what?"  
  
I half expect him to shove me onto the floor again, or at least yell at me. But instead, what he says and how he says it punches me in the gut harder then I could ever imagine.  
  
"Fuck you."

Heartbroken.  
  
I want to apologise, but he runs off, paper still in hand and arm up to his face. Everything is grey around me, fizzing, popping in my ears, I have no idea what just happened but I didn't like it, and now Connor has my song.  
  
Connor has my song.  
  
And then the fizzing turns into a deafening silence.


	4. The Ghost of You (My Chemical Romance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An appointment, a walk, a discovery, a wave of dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything else I just wanna say this IS very inspired by Come and Go, so that's why there are similarities. I'm not trying to copy Come and Go on purpose, and if you get the chance, please read Come and Go, it's amazing
> 
> TW for attempted suicide, specifically overdosing

I'm sitting in the waiting room, and Connor has my song.  
  
The clock is ticking loudly on the wall, and Connor has my song.  
  
There's a woman sitting opposite me with long grey hair who's bouncing her knee faster every second, and Connor still has my song.  
  
I've been waiting to see Dr Sherman for fifteen minutes _exactly_, and no matter how much I try to distract myself, I can't get my mind off the fact that Connor Murphy took my song and could use it to make me look insane at school and everyone will make fun of me and on top of all of that, I have nothing to give in. I'm used to the look of disappointment on Dr Sherman's face when I see him, but the fact that this was the first day of senior year, I think that look's going to leave physical wounds.  
  
But that's not what I'm concerned about. I've read a lot of stories about the 'edgy' kid from high-school on how they take revenge on students or teachers who have upset them. They can go as far as stabbing someone. I don't think Connor will do that; he's a lot of things, but one thing he's not is murderous. But that's not to say that he won't use my song in some way to make me look insane. English teachers never make their students write songs as assignments. And even if they did, why would they want to read about how lonely their students are and how they feel completely alone? Those things are only written by people who want to die.  
  
My eyes wander down to my cast.  
  
It still says CONNOR. Like I expect the letters to vanish any second. He really is like a ghost; he's haunting me wherever I go, reminding me of my mistakes. It's Christmas Eve and I'm Ebenezer Scrooge.  
  
"Evan?" I hear a voice say. I know who it belongs to. "I'm ready for you."  
  
Preparing for the worst, I get up and head towards Dr Sherman's office. I smile at the woman with grey hair before I leave the waiting room. She smiles back.  
  
I've never been a big fan of Dr Sherman's office. Besides the obvious nerves I get in general, it feels too big for a therapist's office. There's a desk, but Dr Sherman never sits behind it when talking to me. Instead, he sits in front of it as I sit on the couch, which is a _comforting_ shade of icy grey. It doesn't even feel like it belongs to a therapist; it looks more like the office of a school principle. At least the posters aren't trying too hard to be relatable. No cats hanging from trees, but a lot of advice on when to take your medication.  
  
"Hey, Evan," says Dr Sherman. "How was your first day back?"  
  
Even though I don't like therapy, I appreciate how his voice is the warmest thing in the room. I sit down on the couch in front of him. "It was good."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. I managed to talk to a few people, so that's good."  
  
Dr Sherman laughs softly. "That's great! Hopefully a 'few' will be the start of 'many', huh?"  
  
I nod, lips tight.  
  
"Did you write anything for me?"  
  
I knew this was going to come, but it still leaves me feeling unprepared. Do I tell him the truth? If I do, chances are he's going to put blame on Connor, and even though he took my song, I don't want that. If I lie, then Connor won't get thrown under the bus, but I'll be lying to my therapist once again. I don't exactly trust him.  
  
"Um, no. I-I didn't. Didn't have enough time."  
  
I'm ready to see the pause and hear the sigh and feel the light drain from him, but I'm surprised to get none of that. In fact, he looks like he expected this.  
  
"I understand. It's your first day, after all. Did you decide on what you want to write?"  
  
It takes me a while to get over the surprise and answer. "U-uh, a song. I wanna write songs."  
  
"Songs, huh? Somehow I knew you'd choose that." he chuckles at his own comment, and I force myself to chuckle along. "You know you don't have to write a full song either, right? Just a few lyrics will be okay."  
  
My chest deflates a little at that. At least I know now that if I can get the song back, Dr Sherman won't be disappointed at my lack of effort.  
  
"You seem more tense then usual. Would you like to talk about something?"  
  
My chest re-inflates. By all accounts, this _should_ be the time I unload all my issues and find a solution, but again. I'm not throwing Connor under the bus. I could easily tell Dr Sherman about what happened. I can feel the truth dancing around on my tongue. But I already lied about not writing anything, and telling the truth now would make me look weirder then I already am. Dr Sherman doesn't even know Connor, and I _know_ he's a therapist, but who's to say he won't judge him based on description alone like most of school?  
  
"Evan?"  
  
"I'm fine," I huff, fake smiling. "I'm fine. It's just- first day jitters, you know?"  
  
"And it's just that?"  
  
I nod.  
  
"Alright. Well, you remember the breathing exercises, right? Remember to use those if things get too much."  
  
Sometimes I come into this room, sit down on the couch, listen to Dr Sherman talk and wonder 'how is this guy a therapist?' I say _sometimes_ because thinking like that is mean and I know he's only trying to help. But most of my appointments end up at a dead end because nothing is actually exchanged. I blame myself for that. Talking about my feelings has always been hard, as you can probably tell. The fact that Dr Sherman's advice hasn't really helped me is unfortunate, too.  
  
It's strange. For someone who essentially looks like (for a lack of a better analogy) a friendlier version of Colonel Sanders, I thought his presence would make me feel welcome and comforting. Instead, it's kind of robotic. I enter the building, wait in the waiting room, enter his office and talk about the same topics every appointment. 'How was school?' and 'Are you doing the exercises?' and 'If your mother wants to talk to me at all, tell her she's welcome to come by'. There's something in it that makes me feel weird, and it's not just the fact that this probably costs more money then it needs to.  
  
I nod as a response, and he seems to be satisfied with that. At least I know how to make my therapist happy.  
  
-  
  
The appointment is an hour long, as usual, but by the time it's over, I feel like I've been sitting on the couch for decades. We didn't talk about much besides school and my medication, and the whole time I was holding my tongue back with the information about my song. Any wrong word or movement and I could have given it all away. Luckily, I'm good at holding back information. Now I've just got the worry all to myself that I've got to sit in for hours.  
  
"Have a good night, Evan. I'll see you next week?"  
  
"Mhm," I give a small, neutral nod. "Thank you."  
  
As I leave his office, I realise that I have multiple options to get home. I could take the bus, but that would require me having to pay and talk to the bus driver, and I don't think I'd be able to do either even if I were fully awake. I could call Jared to drive me home, but why would he want to do that? He's probably studying at home right now. Chances are he'd just say no, anyway. The deal's already been made with my mom. The only option left is to walk home myself.  
  
My home isn't far from the clinic, and I've walked home from there before. The problem is that sometimes it can get a little intimidating. I'm alone, walking along a dark and empty street with only my thoughts to keep my company. I don't exactly trust myself to be alone with my thoughts; they can get _really_ ugly.  
  
But the walk home is through a small tree grove.  
  
If Dr Sherman expects me to keep writing songs, I also need to get inspiration from somewhere, and taking a nature walk seems to work for professional song writers, so maybe it'll work for me. I step out of the clinic and decide to take the walk with a little bit of confidence.  
  
Emphasis on a little bit, because the moment I take a look around, that confidence melts away. It's a lot darker then I expected, and the trees suddenly look towering rather then inviting. I can hear cars driving by and birds chirping and my own footsteps, and none of those sounds are something I want to hear on a solo walk home from a therapist. My palms start sweating, despite the freezing air, and no matter how much I try to dry them, they keep getting sweatier.  
  
"Nothing's gonna kill you," I mumble to myself, unsure if it's enough to convince me. "It's just a walk home, nothing's gonna kill you..."  
  
I put my hands in my pockets as I walk, cautiously looking around to make sure my mantra is true. A little dark, but not dark enough to not be able to see a mugger hiding from me. The cars are loud, but not too loud that they make me jump and accidentally fall onto the road. The birds chirping are actually pleasant to listen to. Maybe I could write a song about birds.  
  
I go to scratch my arm, only to be stopped by my cast again. Even birdsong can't soothe my nerves about Connor. I've never talked to him for anything besides earlier today, and gathering from what others say about him, he doesn't seem to be the most...stable person, but something inside me is telling me he wouldn't use the song to his advantage. He may seem cold and aggressive, but not vengeful. Then again, I don't know him personally.  
  
I remember one story that's often gossiped about throughout the school. Apparently, in second grade, Connor got so angry at one of the teachers, Mrs. G, that he threw a printer at her. I'm not sure how an eight year old of Connor's shape could throw an entire printer at a teacher, but I guess if he can push a stocky guy like me to the ground, he can do anything. Based on the kinds of rumours that spread in my school, Connor could have done anything and people would act like its true. He could have _murdered_ Mrs. G in a fit of rage. He could have built a bomb and planted it in her office. He could've had a secret affair with her at the age of eight as an act of revenge.  
  
Maybe not that last one.  
  
Whatever happened, I don't think Connor takes it well. Who would? Only being defined by an outburst from nine years ago would put some damage on anyone, especially someone who's only seventeen. Maybe this is why he lashes out at everyone. If people expect him to be one way his whole life, there's no reason to make them believe otherwise.  
  
I look at my cast again. I wonder what he's doing right now.  
  
I don't realise how far I've gotten until I look up and notice the parking lot to my right. Ten minutes from the clinic and now twenty minutes until I get home. Then I can worry about the week ahead of me in warmth.   
  
I take a breath, but before I can keep walking, I notice a figure in the parking lot. My feet go colder then they already were. The parking lot belongs to a convenience store that's open twenty four hours, so I have no business being this freaked out when the figure could just belong to a person going shopping. But I don't think a customer would be pacing back and forth with no clear objective. And when I look closer, I notice something familiar about it. Something...haunting.  
  
He really is a ghost.  
  
I'm stuck between two options. I could forget that I ever saw him and continue home, and I can forget any of today happened, or I could stay and talk to him. The idea puts me at a dead end. That would require talking to the person who suspects I'm spying on him and writing songs about his life, and surely it would confirm his suspicions even more. But on the other hand, I could apologise to him for making him think I'm a creep _and_ possibly get my song back in the process, thus avoiding any possible blackmail.  
  
If I can't give in assignments to Dr Sherman, at least I can listen to his advice and talk to people.  
  
"Connor?" I call from across the parking lot. "I-it's Evan."  
  
His head snaps to me like an owl. "Evan?"  
  
"I, um, I wanna apologise for earlier. I didn't mean to-"  
  
"How the fuck are you here?" he sounds panicked, and takes a step back. "Did you follow me?"  
  
My hands fly up on instinct. "No! God, no, I swear I wasn't. I was- shopping, and I just-"  
  
"Go away!" Connor almost _squeaks_ his voice is so desperate. "Leave me alone!"  
  
It's only now that I notice how clammy Connor looks. It's definitely not from the air, and I don't think he's sick. Maybe he's just nervous. I approach closer.  
  
"H-hey, I'm not gonna hurt you."  
  
"I said-"  
  
Suddenly, he doubles over, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. He falls to the floor, groaning and panting, and I realise staying was the right option. He's in pain.  
  
I'm at his side on the ground in an instant. "Wh-what's wrong? Are you okay?!"  
  
"Go..." he starts coughing, and I feel the fear build up inside me. Something is _very_ wrong. I look around the parking lot for anything that could have caused whatever's happening to Connor. No one else is here. It's just us.  
  
Until I see an empty orange bottle on the ground.


	5. You Found Me (The Fray)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lost and insecure  
you found me  
you found me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: In depth descriptions of the side affects of an overdose and a person going into shock
> 
> Oof. This chapter is very Oof. A fun kind of Oof but still

"Oh my God," I pant. "Connor, did you-"  
  
"Please go." Connor whimpers, blood draining from his face quicker every second. He's shaking like a lost puppy out in the snow. There's saliva pooling out of his mouth. He took the pills. He took the whole bottle.  
  
"O-okay, okay-" I look around the parking lot, desperately trying to find something that can save the situation. "Okay, just- you're okay, you'll be okay."  
  
He struggles to glare at me. "Please leave me alone. I don't _want_ to be okay."  
  
I don't want to believe it. I know it's true; the empty bottle speaks for itself. But I don't want to be the one to witness Connor's death first hand. I don't want to see him die, suffering and alone. I need to help.  
  
I shakily pull out my phone, holding back tears as I start dialling 911. Connor groans in protest, but can't say anything on account of coughing too much. I'm right by his side, rubbing his back, trying my best to keep him stable whilst tilting on the verge of a panic attack. The number picks up immediately.  
  
"911, what's your emergency?"  
  
"H-hi, there's-" I swallow. "I've fo- I- there's a-a person- he just- I-"  
  
"Alright, alright, take a breath," the person on the line interrupts. "One thing at a time, alright?"  
  
I recite the breathing exercise Dr Sherman taught me. Breathe in for four seconds, hold that breath for three, exhale it for five. I look over at Connor and repeat the breathes. His eyelids are going slack.  
  
The person on the line continues. "Okay, now what's wrong?"  
  
My breath shudders as I speak. "I've found- I've found someone who overdosed."  
  
Connor groans louder beside me as I talk to the person on the line. I hate to look at him like this, but I need to keep an eye on him. He's been haunting me for hours, and now he finally looks the part. His skin is turning grey, his eyes are darker then black holes, his mouth refuses to close. He's decaying. Forgetting to talk, forgetting how to live. The tears finally fall down my face.  
  
I don't want him to die. I don't want him to die after today.  
  
"Sir? Are you still there?"  
  
"I don't want-" I let out a pathetic sob. "I don't want him to die. Please save him."  
  
"Okay, it's okay-" the person's voice is so reassuring that I calm down a little. "He's going to be okay. Tell me where you are and I'll send an ambulance."  
  
I whimper out the location and keep glancing back to Connor. His hands are trying desperately to cling onto his stomach, but they're becoming weaker by the second. His body is rocking with soft gags, and the sweat is pooling from his face. He's wailing.  
  
He's wailing.  
  
I hardly even know Connor Murphy, but every time I've seen him in school, I could tell something was strange. He wasn't just destructive to others, he was destructive to himself. I've considered talking to him a few times, but every time, I backed out because he looked like he wanted no one around. I should have pushed myself.  
  
I almost jump when I see Connor look back at me. There's something in his eyes that's replaced the light. Something almost childish. Desperate and terrified. "Hurts..."  
  
I try very hard to prevent more tears from coming. "I-I know."  
  
"I don't- I wanna b'okay, please-"  
  
"I know, I know, shh..." Connor is slurring his words, and I'm straining mine in an attempt to not break down in front of him. The person on the phone told me to reassure him and make sure he's conscious until the ambulance comes. I want it to come sooner.  
  
Suddenly, Connor wretches violently, and before I have time to react, he vomits onto his lap. His body resumes shaking.  
  
Part of me knows that this is a good thing. My mom's talked about patients overdosing before and if they vomit, it means that their body is trying to reject the pills. This doesn't stop me from finally tipping into panic attack territory. I've always been afraid of vomiting, and this doesn't help.  
  
My vision swims. "Sir, are you still there?" asks the person on the line.  
  
"H-he..." I pant, throat closing. "He just threw up. That's good, r-right?"  
  
The person on the line makes a sound of affirmation and explains to me what my mom told me before. Even their voice can't calm me down from this.  
  
Connor's body is becoming slack against mine, and my heart is beating so intensely I'm afraid it's going to jump out of my chest. He can't die, he can't, he _can't_-  
  
The sound of a siren buzzes around me, and through the tears, I notice flashing lights. My body has latched onto Connor's like a leech, so when I feel him being pulled away by someone, my breathing increases to the point of wheezing.  
  
"N-no, no-"  
  
"Son, we need to take him into the ambulance."  
  
"Don't let him die-"  
  
My head starts aching and all I see are blurry figures of people pulling Connor away from me and pulling myself up off of the ground and into the ambulance. The sirens are all I can hear and there's nothing but white.  
  
-  
  
White is a searing colour when used too much, and in a hospital, it's practically all you see. The walls and the ceiling scream at me like a room full of hungry toddlers. The blurriness is gone, but there's so many nurses running around and so many bright lights that I wish I couldn't see again. The sound of coughing and pained groaning makes me think of Connor again, and I wonder if I'll need to be checked on by another doctor.  
  
I don't remember being taken into the hospital. The paramedics said that I went into shock and had to take me in to get assessed. They used a stethoscope on me and everything. After a while, I was let out, but instead of going home, I sat outside the room Connor was taken to. Now I'm rapidly bouncing my leg while I wait to be told the news. I have no idea what's happening, and I'm afraid that if I keep overthinking it, I'll need another check up.  
  
I almost jump out of my skin when the door opens and a doctor comes out.  
  
"Is he okay?" I'm already on the verge of tears again. "Is he awake?"  
  
The doctor doesn't seem phased by my panic. He's probably seen these type of reactions before. "He's not awake, but he's stable. He'll make it."  
  
My relief is so intense that I have to hold onto the chair to stop myself from collapsing. Connor is alive. I managed to find him just in time. Before I can stop myself, I start sobbing again. There's no tears, but it's obvious that I'm crying. It's so bad that the doctor has to ask me if I need help. I say no, eventually calming down.  
  
"Th-thank you. Thank you so much."  
  
The doctor smiles, then gives me a look like he's realising something. "Are you Evan Hansen?"  
  
My gut is screaming at me that he shouldn't know this. Why does he know this? I swallow, mouth dry. "Yes...?"  
  
"Oh, God," the doctor mutters sympathetically. "That makes sense..."  
  
I can't help but raise a brow, worry building in my chest. "What do you mean?"  
  
I don't know why I ask this, because before he even pulls out the piece of paper, I already know the answer. "We found this letter in his pocket. It's some sort of poem, I think? And it's addressed to someone named Evan Hansen. He wrote this for you, huh?"  
  
If my day starts out terrible, the rest of the day is going to be terrible, and this is living proof. I don't know how to process everything that just happened. What pops out first is that Connor kept my song with him, even as he was downing the pills. He wasn't planning on blackmailing me, but he wasn't planning on throwing it away either, because I can see the careful folds in the paper. The doctor also thinks that Connor and I are _friends_. That Connor was the one who wrote the song as a suicide note to me. That's why I was the one who saved him.  
  
I know he's a stranger, but I don't want to disappoint him. "Um...yeah. I- he must have. I didn't see it..."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," the doctor readjusts his glasses. It seems he has brown eyes. "Well, at least he'll be okay. You'll be able to visit tomorrow, if you'd like."  
  
That would be both reassuring and awkward as hell. It'd be nice to know how Connor is doing, but I doubt he'd want his first guest to be the person who he thinks is stalking him. I fiddle with the hem of my shirt nervously.  
  
"It's understandable if you want him to rest," says the doctor, making me relax. "You can ask the secretary for visiting hours. You know, you did a brave thing tonight."  
  
My instincts are at full volume telling me to just book it out of the hospital, I shouldn't be here, Connor isn't my friend. There's also something sadly ironic in the fact that the person I've talked to the most today is a doctor. As much as I'd like to consider myself brave for what I did, it would feel wrong. I just wanted Connor to be okay.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"It's getting pretty late. I think you should head home."  
  
Thank God. I smile and nod, already pulling myself away from the conversation, thanking the doctor as he thanks me. I guess I won't be able to sleep well tonight.  
  
The white is still too bright for me. It's giving me a headache, which isn't helped by the amount of chatter and footsteps. Why do hospitals seem more busy at night? I suppose it's easier to bump into or trip over things in the dark. It's always louder too. I can almost feel the heartbeat of patients in my ears, unless it's just mine. I hold a hand to my chest, keeping an eye on myself to make sure I don't pass out right here. Any other second spent in this place is a second I don't want to remember.  
  
I stop at a water cooler and pour a cup. Any more overthinking and I might throw up. At least the water cools me down.  
  
"Evan?"  
  
And it almost gets spat right back out. I know that voice, and as hesitant as I am, I barely move as I turn around to face the source. Her fair is even frizzier the this morning. "H-hey, mom."  
  
Her brow is raised quite high. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you home?"  
  
The hand on my chest grips tightly. I could tell her the truth, but then she'll have to go home early from the stress. Our house only needs one stressed person right now. "I just- wanted to drop by and say hello."  
  
"...oh," she says. Her tone makes her sound surprised, but in a _good_ way, which is new for me. "Well, I appreciate it, but I don't really have the time to chat, sweetheart. We can talk lat-"  
  
"Later, yes," again, backing out of the conversation. "I'll talk to you later. Bye! Love you!"  
  
I can see her raise a hand to respond, but I book it the moment my back is turned. So not only have I sort-of saved Connor from committing suicide, I've lied to a doctor about being his friend _and_ I've been spotted by my mom at her job. Sometimes I wish I believed in better days, but if this is my first day of senior year, what the _hell_ is the rest of it going to be like?


	6. Dirty Little Secret (The All American Rejects)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The water is deep yet Evan is diving right into it, head first and everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll be able to tell if a chapter is serious or not depending on the chapter summery tbh, like this one should hopefully come across as light hearted lol
> 
> TW for sort of mentions of pedophilia I guess? Not really but just in case?

The next few days go by in a blur. I remember the starts of them; I'd wake up after one hour of sleep, go to the bathroom, either grab something small or nothing at all for breakfast and talk to my mom about me 'visiting' her at the hospital. Even after two days, she still questions me about it.  
  
"You don't usually visit me, is all I'm saying."  
  
"Well, I just don't want to distract you. You _did_ say you were busy."  
  
"I- ...did, didn't I?"  
  
She has a habit of excessively worrying about most things (which makes me think I picked it up from her), so I can't blame her. I just hope this doesn't hang over her head for too long.  
  
What I actually did in school remains a mystery to me. Apart from the obvious getting to the bus and taking classes, what I did _in_ those classes as well as anything else is fuzzy at best. I think I skipped a few lunches. The whole time, my mind was focused on Connor and how he was doing in the hospital. The doctors said he was going to be fine, but my anxiety keeps setting up hurdles that I trip over worrying about him. Something could go wrong. His body could reset. He could forget everything that happened. He could be more angry with me. I could be completely wrong and he could still use my song as blackmail.  
  
I've come to the realisation that I forgot to ask the doctor for my song, so it's likely he gave it back to Connor. I can't even imagine the position he's in. Imagine waking up to see a bunch of doctors standing over you, showing you a song someone else wrote and telling you your 'best friend' Evan saved you from overdosing. Imagine the look of confusion on your face. Imagine The look of confusion on your family's face when they go to visit you and wonder why you have a 'letter' from someone they've never heard of before.   
  
Oh God. Zoe's seen me before.  
  
One thing I can remember is that Connor hasn't been in, obviously. But neither has Zoe. Did something happen to her too? Did Connor actually die? I look around and I can't see them today either. My heart starts to race as I walk down the hall. It's getting thinner.  
  
"Evan."  
  
I stop, almost stumbling into a water fountain. The hallway starts expanding again as I see Zoe at my left. She's here and okay, which possibly means that Connor is okay too. I wipe my hands on my shirt. "H-hey! Yes, um, I'm- what's up?"  
  
But Zoe's in no mood for smiling. Her eyes feel foreign to me, lacking that friendly warmth they usually hold. "You saved Connor from killing himself."  
  
So he _is_ alright. I fight my urge to exhale in relief. "Um...I guess so."  
  
"No, not _guess_. You _did_. He's home right now, resting," her words are sharp like slaps to the face. "You _saved_ him."  
  
My hands start fiddling with my shirt again. I don't know if it's me overreacting, but there's something in Zoe's tone that sounds angry. Accusatory, almost. "Um..."  
  
Zoe takes a breath. "My parents want to...'show you their gratitude' by inviting you over for dinner. I don't know when you're free, so I can just give you my phone number and our address and we can find a day."  
  
My eyes widen in fear. There are so many problems with me going to the Murphy's for dinner. I'd have to tell my mom about it, which would then require me telling her the reason why, and I'm not adding onto the worry she already feels for me. Zoe's parents would probably question me on who I am and I would make such a fool of myself that I'd practically walk in wearing clown make up. I'd have to see Connor again, and if _Zoe_ is angry with me, Connor would hold me at knife point. Maybe not that extreme, but I'd leave with at least one injury.  
  
I can't go.  
  
"O-okay."  
  
"Okay," Zoe reaches into her pocket and hands me a small slip of paper. "Phone number and address are on here. Tell me it's you when you text me."  
  
"Uh-" but she walks away before I can say anything else. I remain beside the water fountain in awe, note card in my hand with a phone number and an address on it. The Murphys' address.  
  
I'm having dinner with the Murphys.  
  
~  
  
**holy shit**  
  
**i know**  
  
**holy fucking shit**  
  
I bury my face into my pillow, groaning. All I can think about is earlier. Connor's alive, that's a good thing. But that means I have to go to the Murphys and explain to them that he didn't write that song for me. It's going to be so awkward. Jared isn't helping much either, only exclaiming surprise in response.  
  
**what are you gonna do?**  
  
**i dont know, thats why im**   
**asking you**  
  
**do you really think ill know**  
**anymore then you? you**  
**were the one who saved**  
**him, not me**  
  
I'm starting to get sick of people telling me I _saved_ Connor Murphy. I know that's technically what I did, but it makes me sound like some sort of hero. In reality, I was terrified of seeing someone I knew die in front of me, and the idea that his family would find out pushed me into calling for help. Being scared for someone's life isn't exactly _heroic_ to me.  
  
**look, i have no idea how to   
talk ****to people ive never met**  
**before. cant you just give**  
**me advice on that?  
**  
**theyre gonna want to know**  
**about the song thing**  
  
**thats what im worried**  
**about**  
  
**honestly dude idk how to**  
**help you with that. it**  
**sounds like some weird**  
**sexual poetic thing. is your**  
**therapist a pedophile?**  
  
"Wh-" I huff and roll my eyes. Jared was the worst person to contact for help.  
  
**no?? jared i just wanna**  
**know how to talk to these**  
**people without making**  
**things more awkward**  
**than its already gonna**  
**be**  
  
**i think youve already lost**  
**yourself** **there, buddy**  
  
"Jared..."  
  
**alright alright why dont**  
**you just**  
**smile and nod if they ever**  
**ask you a question?**  
  
I raise a brow. I _guess_ that could work. I'm secretly hoping that they don't ask me too many questions anyway, but Jared's advice will have to do if that happens. Jared's unsure tone doesn't set the plan into motion, however. Also, it's lying.  
  
**smile and nod? but i dont**  
**want to be dishonest**  
  
**its the best option ive got**  
**i mean, everything i say to**  
**my parents is a lie, and**  
**look where i am now**  
  
"Giving me advice you're unsure about?" I mumble under my breath, but starting arguments won't help, so instead I say:  
  
**alright**  
  
**if you fuck up, you dont**  
**get to blame me**  
  
**but you gave me the idea!**  
  
**i gave you a suggestion**  
**thats different  
  
** **fine**  
  
I roll my eyes again and put my phone down, rubbing my temples. Some days, if my feeling of dread is bad enough, I don't go into school, and right now I'm really wishing I did that on Monday. If I didn't go in and Connor didn't see the song, none of this would have happened. People tell me that I saved him, but I feel like I did the opposite. I could've written the song earlier, I could've written it in the waiting room at the clinic. I could have prevented all of this.  
  
My eyes widen as I remember that I never apologised to Connor. That was the reason I confronted him in the first place.  
  
If I go to the Murphys, I'll be able to apologise to him. I don't know if that would solve anything, but considering everything else that's happened, it's the least I can do. Maybe I won't even need to follow Jared's plan. Maybe if I tell them the truth, they'll accept it and we can all move on.  
  
I grab my phone and look through my contacts. My stomach fills with butterflies every time I remember that Zoe's name is now in my phone. I don't now how much we'll talk after the dinner, but I'm secretly hoping it'll be a few times.  
  
**Hey, I'll be able to come**  
**for dinner this Satirsau**  
***Saturday**  
**Sorry  
** **Six, maybe? Six is okay**  
**for me**  
**Oh also it's Evan**  
  
As I reread the disasters that are my texts, I don't know why I expected anything less. I drop my phone onto my bed once again and bury my face in my palms, grimacing at how sweaty they already are. Time to kiss those hopes of talking more after this goodbye.  
  
I almost gasp when I hear my phone ping.  
  
**okay thanks**  
  
It's not much, but it's something. Instead of my bed, I place my phone on my bedside desk and take a deep breath. I'm really going to a dinner with people I hardly know because they think I'm their son's friend and _he_ wrote the song _for me_. I'm _seriously_ hoping Jared's plan works, or that I won't need to use it at all. Or a third option could be that the Murphys aren't free on Saturday and I won't have to go, period.  
  
My mother's voice at the door startles me. I'm getting bored of being startled. "What's got you so down?"  
  
Shit. She can't know. "Oh, just- got a test coming up. Dreading it, honestly."  
  
"Shouldn't you be studying if there's a test?"  
  
"Um, I was, I'm just- I'm taking a break."  
  
I've never been a good liar, but my mom's never been one to push for answers. "Well, alright. Hey, you've been pretty quiet lately. Is something on your mind?"  
  
It's sad to say that me being quiet around my mom isn't really anything new. She knows this, and is probably asking me this question to get me talking again. Only problem this time is that there _is_ something on my mind and I'm afraid that if I start talking, I'll blurt out that I'm going to the house of a boy who I 'saved' from overdosing and lie my way through a conversation. Lying isn't new for me either, but I refuse to add on anymore stress to my mom then what she already feels going into work every day and having to take care of me. If I can live seventeen years full of stress, I can live a few more hours of it.  
  
"Just- the start of senior year, y'know?"  
  
"Ah," my mom utters. "Don't worry about it, honey. You're smart! You'll get through it!"  
  
I seriously hope she's right. "Yeah."  
  
"You okay on refills?"  
  
I look at the little brown box on my bedside table. Whenever a topic has run dry, this is my mom's go-to question. Most of the time, I'm more then okay on refills. I guess 'are you okay on refills' is an easier topic to go to then 'how are you doing mentally'. Never the less, I nod and she seems satisfied with that, smiling at me before she leaves. Even her smile looks exhausted.  
  
Only one more day. One more day until my execution. I look toward my closet and hope I have a fancy enough shirt with long sleeves.


	7. Dirty Little Secret (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dress shirts and deals. Also skiing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give y'all full permission to chew me out for posting this late, I'm so sorry :' D I am a Very Easily Distracted person
> 
> This is pretty much the first dinner-with-the-Murphys scene from the musical with little details. TW for referenced suicide attempts of course, and also Evan being a dumbass, but that's also to be expected
> 
> Also, just a heads up, this chapter is LOOOOONG (and even I have no idea how that happened)

The door is a lot redder than I expect it to be. It's almost like a warning sign, screaming at me to turn around and forget any of this happened. But I'm already smoothing out the creases in my shirt and preparing myself for the disaster that is about to unfold in front of me.  
  
I readjust my sleeve so that it covers as much of my cast as possible. I managed to find a dark green sweater at the back of my closet, so I slipped it on over a dress shirt and hoped it would cover my cast. Connor's name is still there. Big, bold letters, screaming at me, reminding me of that night. I still see him slumped over me when I close my eyes. I'm hoping there won't be too much food for me to eat, because chances are it'll only come back up.   
  
I look up and notice the sun already going down. It's too late to run. I can do this.  
  
I reach up and knock on the door. Almost immediately, it opens.  
  
"Oh, you must be Evan!" chirps the woman who answered. She's an older woman, possibly late forties, with red hair turning grey cut to her neck. I can only assume she's Zoe and Connor's mother, because the shade of red is exactly the same as Zoe's. She's about the same height as me, and her outfit makes me realise that this isn't a dinner at a fancy restaurant, but at someone's house. While I'm wearing a dress sweater, she's wearing jeans and a beige tank top that might as well be part of a pyjama set. The best word to describe how she's dressed is cozy, which is the exact opposite of what I feel right now.  
  
I shuffle my feet on the porch. "Um, yes, hello. That's me. Nice to meet you."  
  
"Please, come in!" she steps to the side to let me in, and I can't help but marvel at the size of the living room alone. There's a chance that it's twice the size of my own. My shivers die down as I step inside, instantly feeling its warmth. The first thing I notice are the amount of pictures on the wall. Pictures of people. Of the Murphys. A lot of the pictures are of Zoe and Connor when they were little. It takes me by surprise that Connor used to have short hair; I've only seen him with hair below his ears.  
  
Then I notice how everything, even the couch, looks expensive. Zoe and Connor's father is Larry Murphy, someone fairly well known around the town for being the manager of a pretty big company. What he does at said company, I'm unsure of, but I know that it means he and the rest of his family get a lot of money. The rug looks soft and warm, the TV is the biggest I've ever seen a TV outside of shops, even the clock on the wall looks like it could be made from diamond. Despite all of this, it still feels comforting. Secure.  
  
Mrs Murphy guides me into the kitchen and to my surprise, only Zoe and her father are at the table. Connor is nowhere to be seen. They both look at me with something negative in their eyes that makes the chills return. I've never seen Zoe look so cold before, yet I can't help but blush upon seeing her wearing a tank top similar to her mother.  
  
"Connor won't be eating with us, I hope that's okay," says Mrs Murphy sheepishly. "He's in his room."  
  
"Oh, i-is he okay?" I ask, pit forming in my stomach.  
  
"He's resting," Zoe chimes in. Her voice is full of venom and sarcasm, and it's enough to make me squirm uncomfortably. Her father glares at her from across the table but she doesn't bother noticing.  
  
"Oh," I mumble. "That's- good."  
  
"I'm so happy you decided to come!" Mrs Murphy chirps again, switching the mood faster than a slideshow. It's almost like whiplash. "Connor never told us about having friends. It'll be nice to get to know more about him."  
  
I nod and smile, sitting myself down and readying myself to break Mrs Murphy's heart. There was so much hope in her voice, so much glimmer in her eyes. Seeking for information about her son, like he were a stranger. It dawns on me that Connor really didn't have any friends, or at least none that his family knew about. It also dawns on me that none of said family seem to be concerned that I'm here because I 'saved' Connor from dying. Zoe's focusing her attention on me, but it's full of scorn and suspicion. Mr Murphy's only looking at the food like he's wanting to dish it out. Mrs Murphy is also looking at me, but something's telling me she doesn't want to hear about Connor and I in the parking lot.  
  
"Sorry," I mutter, wishing I brought a handkerchief for my hands. "I'm a little nervous."  
  
"Take your time, dear," Mrs Murphy's voice is as sweet as honey. She keeps the smile as she sits down.  
  
My foot thunders against the floor and Mr Murphy dishes out the food. It smells delicious, and I would be lying if I said it doesn't make my stomach growl, but I don't think I should eat anything right now. It feels wrong to eat without Connor. It feels wrong to be in this house without seeing Connor, period. I see him on the walls and in the faces of his parents, but none of that is the real deal. My eyes slowly float up to the ceiling as I wonder where Connor is up there. Where his room would be. Maybe it's not even above the kitchen. Maybe he's not even in his room.   
  
No one seems to mind that I haven't said anything yet, as they're digging into their portions. I do the same, mind still occupied with Connor. For as much as I didn't know him before, it's like he's branded my mind like a cowboy to a horse. In a way, he's literally branded me, if my cast is anything to go by. I wish I could paint over it, remove his name from anywhere on my body, but who removes a name from a cast? And considering how big the letters are, it would be a waste of paint. I guess if I'm gonna build a narrative of how we were friends, keeping it would make sense.  
  
"Did Connor ever tell you about the skiing trip we took?" asks Mrs Murphy, eyes still full hope. I can see Zoe roll her's out of the corner of mine.  
  
Following Jared's advice, I simply smile and nod.   
  
"What did he tell you?" Zoe questions pointedly. Her fork scrapes against the plate.  
  
My face starts to heat up, working it's way from my core. "Uh, he just- he didn't say a lot. He- likes it, though. Skiing."  
  
"No he doesn't," Zoe's voice is getting harsher with every word, but remains at the same volume. "Connor hates skiing."  
  
I struggle to hold my silverware in my shaking hands. I should never have said yes to visiting the Murphys, I dug myself a hole. The Murphy house is the hole, and I'm stuck right in the middle of it. Everyone's eyes are on me and I can feel them burning into my skin, into my skull, giving me a headache. I think I'm going to explode.  
  
"He-"  
  
"Zoe, don't be so pessimistic," Mrs Murphy chimes in to my relief. "He didn't hate all of it! Remember the gift shop?"  
  
Zoe's glare is now focused on her mother. "You mean the gift shop where he threw a ski through the window because dad told him to stop complaining about the cold?"  
  
Even the clock on the wall goes silent. Everyone is frozen in place, except for Mr Murphy, who finally looks up from his plate to give Zoe a stare. She doesn't even flinch. It's sad that I can't argue against the idea of Connor doing something like that, and it's even sadder that none of the other Murphys don't do the same.  
  
"Zoe, don't do this in front of a guest," drones Mr Murphy.  
  
"Like you think any different," Zoe argues, tone getting more agitated. "You still talk about how much you had to pay the lodge back."  
  
"That's not the point."  
  
"What _is_ the point, then? That Connor's freak outs don't mean anything? That he's a good person 'despite them'?"  
  
Now it's Mrs Murphy's turn. "Don't say that! Connor is a..."  
  
But she pauses. Almost like her brain and her heart are telling her two different things, and she doesn't know which one to accept. It's painful to watch as Zoe's stare is most likely piercing her.  
  
It's too painful to keep quiet about. "A-a complicated person?"  
  
Mrs Murphy looks at me thankfully. "Yes, a complicated person. Connor is a complicated person."  
  
"No," Zoe snaps, "Connor is a _bad_ person. How are you not getting this?"  
  
"Zoe, enough," Mr Murphy snaps back.  
  
"You know I'm right!"  
  
"Zoe!"  
  
"He's not a bad person."  
  
Everyone turns to face me. I have no idea why I said that. I hardly know anything about him. For all I know, he _could_ be a bad person. I set my silverware down so my shaking hands don't drop them onto the floor and prepare to dig myself into the hole even further than I already am.  
  
"No?" Zoe questions.  
  
"Uh...no. He's- not."  
  
Maybe my heart is speaking for me.  
  
"I remember- a lot of good things he did."  
  
Sorry, Jared.  
  
"What did he do?" asks Zoe again.  
  
My throat is so tight that I'm afraid I'm going to suffocate. Usually, I never have to respond to questions with more baggage then 'you okay on refills?', so being given the floor is enough to make me turn into a statue. And it's not like I want to sabotage anything; I wouldn't even do that if they insulted me for the whole dinner. They're all just looking at me, expecting something. I'm just as expectant as them.  
  
"He...f-fed stray cats."  
  
It's something, at least.  
  
I prepare for the judgement to finally come, but to my surprise, there's none. In fact, there's joy. "Right, he did! Under the porch at our old house, remember?"  
  
"You told us not to feed those cats because they'd give us diseases," Zoe says, like she's been planning to say it for years. Cynthia goes solid, much like me.  
  
"...well, he still did. So did you!"  
  
"That doesn't change anything."  
  
"He also, um, we like to hang out," I interject. It's definitely my heart that's doing the talking for me, because I find myself at a dead end. "We hang out at, um...at the..."  
  
Their eyes are back on me, and in an attempt to do anything but return the gaze, my own eyes land on the bowl of apples in the middle of the table.  
  
"...the apples...place."  
  
Zoe looks at me like I just told her to fuck off in a different language. Mrs Murphy also seems confused, but the type of confused where the answer is on the tip of her tongue. I look at them like I'm surprised they haven't kicked me out yet.  
  
Then Mr Murphy looks up again. "You spend time at the apple orchard?"  
  
Mrs Murphy tastes the answer. "Oh, the orchard...we haven't been there in years."  
  
"Because it closed," says Zoe. Nothing I say is convincing her, and I don't blame her for that. "Why are you hanging out in a place that's closed to the public?"  
  
I tug on my collar. "Um...w-we, uh..."  
  
"Oh, dear," Mrs Murphy suddenly stands from her chair, hands to her chin. "Did you trespass? Is he making you trespass?"  
  
I shoot up in my seat so fast I'm nervous my neck will break. "No! No, he's not making me trespass!"  
  
"But that's what you're doing," says Zoe.  
  
"We- we never get caught."  
  
"That doesn't change anything!"  
  
"Zoe, enough," Mr Murphy commands, attention now completely on us. Zoe's face contorts like she's holding back an expletive. Mr Murphy continues. "I'm sorry son, but I'll have to have a word with him about this."  
  
"NO!" I call, surprising myself with my own voice. Deep breaths. "No, he- he knows! He knows it's bad! We don't do it anymore, y-you don't need to tell him."  
  
Mr Murphy raises a brow at me, but thankfully doesn't push the topic. Neither do Mrs Murphy or Zoe. If anything, Mrs Murphy just seems relieved.  
  
"So that's where he went most nights..."  
  
I make the mistake of letting slip a 'huh?' and Mrs Murphy continues. "He wouldn't come home until the next day sometimes. He was with you, wasn't he? I should've known he was just with a friend..."  
  
The more I find out about Connor, the more conflicted I feel. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be sitting at this table telling lies about the two of us, giving false hope to people who have been searching for it for ages. At the same time, my stomach twists at the possibility that Connor tried to off himself because of how lonely he was, and his family don't seem to be helping him. Not only is he a mystery, his family is a mystery too. Zoe seems to hate him, his mother seems concerned that her parenting isn't good and his father seems disinterested in any of it. I don't know which side I should believe in.  
  
"What else did you do?" asks Mr Murphy. Maybe he's less disinterested than I thought.  
  
I can say anything. I can say we watched football games, or took pottery classes, or listened to music for hours and hours and they'll believe it, but everything is frozen on my tongue.  
  
Listening to music...  
  
"We'd write music sometimes," I say, not sure if I've opened new doors or doomed myself. "Like- songs. We would write songs together. In my room."  
  
The look of horrid realisation dawns on Mrs Murphy's face. "That's why his note was..."  
  
For just a moment, I forget that that was the whole reason we're having this dinner in the first place. If only I stayed at the hospital longer. "Mhm."  
  
I don't know if I've helped at all. No one is talking, not really looking at each other either. Quiet for me usually means that I've said something stupid, and I wouldn't be surprised if that's what they think of me. Someone stupid and confused and so lonely that he has to make up stories about being friends with a suicide survivor to make a family happy. But there's nothing on their faces that's telling me that. If anything, they seem to be thinking something over. People usually forget everything I've said the moment I've stopped talking.  
  
"Evan..." murmurs Mrs Murphy softly. Her eyes glisten. "Thank you. For being there for Connor."  
  
I know what she means by that, how she says it, and for once, I feel like I've done something right. "I-it's what friends do."  
  
Then she tilts her head up to the ceiling with another look of contemplation. It's like she's afraid of it. "I know you haven't finished eating, but would you like to see Connor? You two can catch up on some stuff."  
  
It would be nice to check up on him, just to calm the panic in my head. But the panic is also telling me that Connor is going to hurt me if I say hello. Who's to say that he can't hear what's been said? Who's to say he's not planning on hurling me out the window of his room or locking me in his closet? But Mrs Murphy is looking straight through me, right into my heart. If Connor is a ghost, Mrs Murphy is the witch who lays curses on unsuspecting victims.  
  
"O-okay."  
  
"Ask him if he'd like to come down to get something to eat." Mrs Murphy asks. I'm already out of my seat as I nod, suddenly eager to be anywhere but the kitchen. The air is suffocating.   
  
I notice on my way up the stairs that there are more pictures on the wall. Getting to see these pictures is like breaking and entering. I shouldn't be seeing these pictures, I should be at home doing homework or scrolling through social media and telling my mom I'm okay on refills. Or a more apt comparison would be that I'm like a surgeon and the these pictures are a patient's organs. They're something that I shouldn't be seeing even though I've signed up to see them. In a way, the pictures also make me feel gross. Everyone is smiling in almost every one of them, yet the only person in this house that I've seen smile is Mrs Murphy, and I could see the strain in her cheeks. Seeing Connor, younger with short hair and smiling, it doesn't feel right. It's the mask of a happy child on of a troubled teen.  
  
In my hurry to escape the kitchen, I realise that I didn't ask which room is Connor's (though if I'm fabricating a fake story of friendship, it would make sense that I would already know). Each door is ivory, and they all look better than every door in my house combined. The only door I can assume isn't Connor's is one on my left, which is covered in glow stars. Zoe's room. As I pass, a part of me wonders what it's like inside. Probably purple since that's the colour she wears the most, and a few band posters, and fairy lights along the wall behind her bed. Then I realise that it's probably creepy to imagine what your crush's room looks like and keep going until I see a door to my right which is slightly ajar. It's too dark inside to see anything inside, but I walk closer, something telling me I've found my destination. I gently knock.  
  
"Fuck off," says a voice inside. It's hoarse and quiet and most definitely Connor's. I wince.  
  
"Um...i-it's Evan," I mumble, even quieter than Connor. "From school."  
  
No response. Not that I thought I'd get one anyway, but it leaves me stuck. I can't just go back downstairs and tell Mrs Murphy that her son told me to fuck off, and I can't wait upstairs for the rest of the night either. However, in my thoughts, I'm suddenly pulled from the hallway into the room. My eyes don't have enough time to adjust to the change in light before a voice starts talking.  
  
"Mind telling me what the _hell_ is going on?" Connor commands. I was right about him being angry, but there's more confusion in his voice than venom. "Why are you here? Why do they think we're _friends_?"  
  
His grip is so tight that he's lifting me up from the ground. I'm on my toes. The words start spilling out of me before I can form them properly. "It was- y-you had the- the doctors saw the song that you t- that I wrote and assumed we were friends, I didn't know what to say so I just agreed, then Zoe invited me over and I couldn't say no I felt like I had to repay you somehow I didn't-"  
  
Connor huffs and lets me go, surprising me as I almost fall over. "Jesus Christ," he murmurs, turning away to close the door.  
  
Saying it all out loud makes me realise how bad it sounds. There isn't really anything _good_ about lying about being friends with a kid who tried to kill himself, but Connor's reaction solidifies the size of the hole I've dug myself. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Can you just-" Connor turns on the light and immediately flinches, like he's not used to it. "Try to tell me _normally_? Please? I can't fucking understand you when you ramble like that."  
  
Hesitantly, I sit down on his bed. No objections. "Th- the doctors found the song. In your pocket-"  
  
"I heard that part," Connor interrupts, sitting down next to me. "You told them that we were friends? _Why_? I don't know you."  
  
He's not yelling, but his tone sounds so confused that it's leaning into frustration, and it makes me crouch down defensively. "I-I know, I don't know why I said it. I was just- I was stuck, I guess? I mean, he was a doctor, it's not like it's dangerous if he knows ab- about our personal lives-"  
  
"Well, guess you're wrong, because look who fucking knows now." Connor gestures around his room, no specific direction, although his gaze is toward the floor. Guess his room _is_ above the kitchen.  
  
I shift my feet over one another uninterrupted. "H-how much did you hear?"  
  
"All of it," he replies, which makes a boulder drop in my stomach, before he continues. "I didn't understand any of it, though. All I know is that they were probably fighting again."  
  
"Oh..." more feet shuffling. I attempt to wipe my hands on my pants, but the motion only causes them to sweat more. "I, um...told them something else."  
  
There's some silence, and Connor doesn't even look up at me. He picks at his blanket like he's trying to squish a bug. I wonder if he even heard me.  
  
"...um-"  
  
"Well? Go on."  
  
Ah. I take a breath and prepare for Connor Murphy's full anger. "I told them that we hang out and write songs together."  
  
There's a lot of ways that Connor can react to that statement. He could yell at me so loud that his parents think I attacked him. He could walk out of the room entirely and never return for the duration of my visit. He could even wave it off like it was a completely normal decision to make. Connor is, with out a doubt, the most unpredictable person I've ever seen, and that makes my hands cold.  
  
I do _not_ expect him to laugh.  
  
It's a quiet laugh, more like a chuckle, but it's still a laugh. He stops trying to squash the bug. "Fucking _songs_? Are you serious?"  
  
"Th-that's what the letter was, though!" My voice raises an octave defensively. "I couldn't say anything else!"  
  
"You could've told them we didn't write _anything_ together," Connor responds, and as much as I want to object, both my brain and heart are telling me he's right.  
  
Not only have I dug myself a hole, I've dragged Connor into it too. It's like that scene in Winnie the Pooh, where Pooh and Rabbit are stuck in a hole and the song is Piglet. In this situation, I would be Rabbit because I'm angry at the letter for getting me in this situation and yet expecting it to get me out of it at the same time. I'm not sure how Connor is Pooh, because he couldn't be skinnier if he tried, but that's what I get for making comparisons between lying about befriending a suicide survivor and a damn cartoon from the seventies.  
  
"Look, I fucked up, I know-"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"But I can't- I can't back down now," I swear my hands are flying all over the place like an airport traffic controller. "We gotta...like...keep it up. For them."  
  
Connor raises a brow. "For _them_."  
  
I gulp. "Y-your family-"  
  
"I know what you mean," he responds, venom back in his voice as his finger prods my chest. "But there's no fucking way I'm helping you with this. I don't know you, you don't know me, yet it seems _everyone_ _thinks_ you know me, fuck, none of this would have even happened if you just let me-"  
  
It's as if an invisible force punches Connor in the stomach, because he doubles over with his arms wrapped around his middle before he can continue. In a way, I'm glad he didn't, because I don't think I would have wanted to hear it. He's panting softly.  
  
"Hey- are you okay?" I ask, more panicked than I intend.  
  
Connor stays down for a few seconds before slowly lifting his head. He doesn't look at me, instead facing toward the ceiling and taking big, gulping breaths. The light from above highlights just how..._hollow_ he looks. His eyes are dark and sunken in like a skull, and he's so pale that I'm surprised I can't see through him. He, admittedly, doesn't look too different from the glimpses I see of him at school, but now there's a slightly green tint to his cheeks that tell me he's unwell.  
  
"Yeah, 'm fine," he tells me after composing himself. "I've been- it happens sometimes. If I go apeshit, I guess. Ever since...yeah."  
  
I conclude that he must be recovering, which settles the panic in my head. Still, I understand why his mother is so concerned now. Connor is weak and frail, and could collapse at any second and she nor the others would know if it was a nausea-induced faint or something worse. Not only is Connor unpredictable, his own body is too.  
  
"...they're worried," I murmur timidly. Kind of pathetically.  
  
Connor looks at me. "Hm?"  
  
"Your parents," I fiddle with my stubs of fingernails. "E-especially your mother. She kept, um, whenever you were brought up, she looked scared."  
  
Connor shrugs. "Not anything new."  
  
What he said should set off an alarm in my head. I don't know much about relationships (including familial ones), but I know that being nonchalant about making your mother instinctively nervous isn't a good sign. But the way Connor says it, how broken and defeated he sounds, like he's gotten used to it even though he didn't want to, opens another door. Makes me want to step into his mind for a second to see what's going on.  
  
The fiddling stops, but is only replaced with knuckle rubs. "...but, um...when I told her about the- the song thing, she seemed so happy. Like she lit up, or something."  
  
Connor remains motionless.  
  
"I told her some...other stuff too. Like, we were talking, and she brought up the skiing trip you went on, and I said you love skiing-"  
  
"I hate skiing," says Connor with more clarity than I've heard from him all night.  
  
"Yes, right, which is what Zoe said, so then I agreed, and then it just- it went from there, and I talked about how you fed stray cats and how we hang out at the apple orchard, I don't think they gave a name-"  
  
Connor bolts up, making me shut my mouth, but he doesn't look at me. "The orchard..."  
  
There's a small glimmer in my chest. "You remember?"  
  
"...that place closed down months ago. You told them we _still_ hang out there?"  
  
"See, I didn't-" I feel my palms start to sweat again. "I-I didn't think that part through, but- look, that's not important. I'm saying that...wh-when I told her about all of this, she seemed...happy. And...I-I don't know, I didn't wanna take that from her."  
  
There's more silence in the room, only this time, Connor isn't squashing any non-existent bugs. It's hard to read what his face says because his hair acts as a curtain over it, but I can feel that he's thinking. I can't even imagine the situation he's in right now. Either keep up a lie that you're friends with a kid you don't know to make your parents happy, or tell them the truth and leave them feeling scared of you for the rest of your life. The fact that I'm the one putting him in this position fills me with so much guilt that I'm afraid I'm going to throw up the dinner I barely ate.  
  
"...I-I understand if-"  
  
"Okay," says Connor, who looks at me without confusion for once. "I'll do it."  
  
I almost don't believe it myself. "What?"  
  
"Next time I come to school, sit with me at lunch. We can start writing something there."  
  
There's some confusion, but also relief. "But what if I don't see you?"  
  
"You'll see me," responds Connor, vague enough to where I feel like he's planning a murder. He doesn't even say anything else. He just leaves it at a confirmation that we're going to be writing songs together to prove to his parents that we've been friends for ages without them even knowing.  
  
"This plan sucks," Connor says through a befuddled smile, mirroring my own thoughts.  
  
"I know. By the way, your mom told me to ask you if you wanted to, um, get something to eat."  
  
Connor gives me a bored look. "You can just call her Cynthia. She likes when guests call her by her first name. And...I'll eat later. I don't really feel good right now."  
  
Neither do I, Connor. Neither do I.


	8. The Calendar (Panic! At The Disco)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to write more songs! This time, featuring Connor as a co-writer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that the uploading schedule would be like this lmao
> 
> I'm SO sorry for anyone who's been waiting, I unfortunately have a stupid brain that makes it hard to focus on writing. Here's chapter 8 and I hope y'all like it
> 
> (TW: mentions of suicide and vomit)

Twelve PM.  
  
The lunch hall is louder than usual.  
  
There's too much chatter and crashing, and I can't find a clear path anywhere. If I'm bumped one more time, I might fall over, and after day one of senior year, I would like to avoid that.  
  
It's Monday, and I don't expect Connor to be at school. Considering the little time I spent with him on Saturday, he didn't look well enough to go in for another week. The ghost comparison is getting boring, but it still rings true. It was like I could see the door through his face.  
  
Sometimes I see him in my sleep.  
  
Not like he's a literal ghost possessing me, or anything. Watching The Exorcist with Jared makes me feel like there would be a lot more vomiting and neck snapping if that were the case. I think it's just my brain telling me how badly I messed up by lying and punishing me by making my dreams be full of the image of Connor hunched over himself in the parking lot, writhing and struggling to decide if he wants to stay alive or not. I've seen it so much that sometimes I get unsure if I actually saved him or if it was just a dream. Still, he's not literally possessing me, so I guess that's comforting.  
  
I can't see any free tables anywhere, and while I wouldn't mind eating in the library, I _would_ mind leaving Connor behind if he actually _has_ come to school today. I can't see him anywhere.   
  
Until I see a speck of black on an empty table.  
  
I hurry over to it, feeling my heart stop twice thinking I'm going to fall over again. The speck of black doesn't move when I sit next to it, but its long brown hair assures me that it's indeed Connor.   
  
"Um...hi," I murmur. I barely hear my own voice over the orchestra of the cafeteria. "It's- Evan."  
  
The black speck of Connor lifts his head, and I'm actually surprised to see that he looks better than he did on Saturday. The green from his cheeks has subsided in favour of a more natural peach, though he still looks pale and tired. I wonder if he's been sleeping this whole time.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
He makes a noise that I'm fairly certain isn't in any specific language and looks down at the table. His hair is a set of drapes covering his face. "Alive, I guess."  
  
_I guess_. Connor seems to always have a way with words. My stomach twists awkwardly, and my hands fiddle with my bag as I attempt to get my lunch out.  
  
I see people pass by my table endlessly when I'm eating alone and I wonder if any of them are able to eat when they're anxious. They must be anxious, it's school. Yet there are people cramming food into their mouths like they're starving, even licking the crumbs from their fingers, and I'm nervous about passing out from the _thought_ of consuming something.  
  
Looking to my right, Connor seems to be in the same boat.  
  
His face is in his arms and he makes no effort to eat. In fact, there isn't any food around him. His messenger bag is at his side, most likely with his lunch in it, but he makes no effort to reach inside and take it out. I don't blame him; I feel sick when I take just one Ativan.  
  
Still, the silence is smothering, and I gotta clear the air somehow. "You're not gonna eat?"  
  
He's slower to raise his head this time. "Can't. If I eat anything, I'm gonna throw up. I know it."  
  
"Ah," I nod and slowly put my lunch back in my bag. "Um...wh-why are you- in the Cafeteria then?"  
  
"No where else to go."  
  
"What...what about the library?"  
  
Connor shrugs lazily and puts his head back down. I feel like a brick wall.  
  
The smothering feeling doesn't subside, and as I look around the cafeteria, I realise that a few eyes are on us. Some are sympathetic, almost like they're looking at a lost puppy, and some have a more sinister vibe about them. It's enough eyes to make my skin prickle.  
  
"Everyone's staring..." I mumble. The feeling is amplified when it's not just your brain playing tricks on you.  
  
Connor shifts again. "Probably heard about me. You know what school's like."  
  
I do, and when I look again, I can see what's going on in everyone's heads as their eyes follow us. "_Did he really try to kill himself? He looks exhausted. Who's that guy with him? I didn't know Connor Murphy had friends. I can't believe he's still here_." I can't believe it either.  
  
Suddenly, a voice I don't recognise calls Connor's name. We both look up in unison to see a group of guys passing our table, all of them smirking. I don't recognise any of their faces, and Connor's expression tells me he's in the same boat. "Who's this guy?"  
  
"Who are you?" Connor cuts to the chase, tone indicating he's in no mood for strangers. Part of me is thankful. A big part.  
  
"Dude, chill," the leader of the group chides as he holds his handa up, mocking surrender. "Don't work yourself up too much. Not when you're that sick."  
  
The guy next to him, short and scrawny, points a finger to his open mouth and wretches once, then twice, then all of them pretend to throw up all over our table, and it's disgusting, and if I had actually eaten my lunch, there would probably be actual vomit everywhere.  
  
It's not me they're targeting though, and Connor's sudden, very real retching beside me is evidence of that. He's kneeling over and holding a fist to his mouth and everything. It's at least enough for the guys to finally go away, but not without laughing triumphantly.  
  
I roll my eyes and fling myself over to Connor's side, rubbing careful circles into his back. "I-it's okay, it's okay."  
  
"How the fuck do they know," Connor pants, voice shifting between irritation, fear and confusion in a matter of seconds. "How the _fuck_ do they_ always_ know. I don't even fucking say anything and they-"  
  
"Deep breaths," I say automatically. It's not a panic attack, but it's enough to know that if he doesn't stop, he really will throw up. "I-it's like you said...school always knows."  
  
There may be security cameras around the building, but they don't pick up sound. How word of mouth spreads so easily will never be answered. It's part of the reason school is so hard for me. Never know what someone is going to say or who they're going to say it to. Never know if someone even said anything in the first place, or if it was just that easy to figure out. It's hard enough for me, but I can't imagine how it must feel for someone like Connor. The rumours in our school consist almost entirely of him and what he does. He has to put up with it daily.  
  
I didn't think it actually got to him that bad.  
  
Everyone has gone back to their meals when I look up, and Connor eventually calms down. If eating was a thing before, it's _definitely_ off the table now. "Um, hey, we can-"  
  
"So, what are we doing with this thing?" Connor asks, almost like he's been fine this entire time.  
  
I stare at him. "This...thing?"  
  
"You know," he waves his hand freely. "This...song thing. Are we writing one now, or...?"  
  
It clicks. "A-ah, yeah. Um, I was thinking...maybe we could do it after school? If that's cool with you?"  
  
I think Connor's face says he's confused. "Why?"  
  
"It's just- it's more private. It's easier for me, y'know? Does that make sense?"  
  
"Yeah, I get it," the colour returns to his cheeks gradually. "But...where would we go?"  
  
I hadn't thought that far ahead. I know there are a lot of places that would be available, like the local library, but writing something I shouldn't _there_ wouldn't be any different than writing it here in school right now. I can already feel the eyes landing on me and piercing through me, judging me. It would have to be a place with just me and Connor.  
  
There's always my house, but mom's been unpredictable with her work schedule lately. And I've already invaded Connor's house, I'm not making him invade mine.  
  
"I know," I say, the idea suddenly hitting me. "There's a park close to where I live. It's, there aren't usually many people there, it's kinda depressing, actually- but, um, I think it'll work!"  
  
Connor contemplates. It's like I can see the gears turn in his head, slowly and soundless. At least one thing I know about him is that he thinks too much for those gears to rust over, because I'm the exact same. My cogs have never been rusty. "Okay. Sounds good."  
  
I exhale. Even my own breath startles me. "Um, great! Great."  
  
Great...  
  
I know that I'm in too deep. So deep that I'd be swimming with the fish at the bottom of the sea if I could actually swim. But having someone else in on it, as horrible as it is to admit, makes me feel a little better. At least there's someone here to ground me if I resurface too early.  
  
I look over to see that Connor is actually _smiling_. I've seen him smile before, and this isn't the kind of smile that I want to see. It's like he's finding humour in something he shouldn't. "You know, I think I'm actually looking forward to this."  
  
My eyes widen. "O-oh, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," for the first time today, he sits up and looks directly at me. "I feel like I'm gonna have to correct a lot of what you write."  
  
~  
  
_I've learned to slam on the breaks  
Before I even turn the key  
Before I make the mistake  
Before I s̶t̶a̶r̶t̶ with the worst of me__  
_ _**lead**_  
  
This is what the doctor gave back to me when Connor was first admitted to hospital, but I was in such a rush to get out that I never bothered to re-read it. I can't say that I'm an expert songwriter, but the editing makes me raise a brow. I didn't make any typos, and it's not like I used the word 'said' for the thousandth time.  
  
"Why did you cross this out?" I ask to the black speck walking next to me. He looks less speck-y now that he's actually moving. Less like a zombie and more like something with an actual soul.  
  
Connor removes his hand from his mouth and wipes it on his jacket. "It didn't flow with the rest of the lyric."  
  
This time, both my brows crease. "What do you mean?"  
  
"It's a song, right?" he drags his feet along the floor as he walks. "If the lyrics don't flow, they become clumsy and ruin the mood. I mean, I don't know if you have a melody yet, but to me, what you wrote didn't work. I just thought 'lead' would work better than 'start'."  
  
I mean, I guess he's right. Sometimes I listen to a song where the lyrics feel like they don't fit, and it takes me out of the mood. Maybe that's where I picked up the bad tip from. "Makes sense. So...y-you have a melody for it?"  
  
Connor pauses in his tracks. His expression doesn't change, but he doesn't look at me. I feel something bad form in my stomach, worried that I've offended him or that he's going to laugh at me because I said something stupid. I tend to do that. But he doesn't say anything about it, completely dodging the question and walking along, platform boots collecting chunks of dirt.  
  
Eventually, I spot the park. For as long as I can remember, it's never been anyone's favourite place to hang out because it's so small. But seeing it _completely_ abandoned just makes it depressing. There aren't even any other teenagers here smoking weed or anything. I wonder if someone saw us here, they'd assume we came here to smoke weed.  
  
"Th-this is it," I stutter, attempting my best 'presenting' arms. "It's- um...yeah. A little small, but-"  
  
"I like it," Connor interrupts. He looks around as if he's in a museum. "It's got charm. I assume that's where we're sitting?"  
  
He points a pale finger toward the one and only bench in the park, and before I can even confirm, he's trudging over to it. I cringe as the bench creeks underneath us. The wood is rotting to the point of crumbling. I regret everything already.  
  
"We can- we should go somewhere else-"  
  
"So, what've you got?" Connor asks before I can finish. I wonder if he does this on purpose.  
  
He's wondering if I have any more lyric ideas, and realising that I don't, I freeze. The paper sputters in my hands as the wind passes over it, the same lyrics being there as they always were, with no new ideas to continue. Times like this really makes me wish that I had a big enough backbone to tell people when I think an idea is stupid, and I know that Dr. Sherman is just trying to help, but writing stuff? Really? When has writing anything helped anyone?  
  
Maybe that bigger backbone should be used on me, too.  
  
"Evan?"  
  
"No," I blurt. I want to hide the paper in shame. "No, I...don't. Sorry."  
  
No yelling from Connor, no pushing me to the ground from Connor, not even a menacing 'what?' from Connor. Instead, I get a soft exhale through Connor's nose. Somehow it feels just as painful. "Alright. Let's just...go with it, I guess. Make stuff up as we go."  
  
I'm used to that. I can do that. I can make stuff up as I go. But making stuff up is a lot easier when I'm alone, and even then it feels like a marathon I didn't prepare for. My mind keeps yelling _don't soak the paper don't soak the paper_ as I grip onto the lyrics, Connor sitting next to me and probably wondering why this tiny nervous wreck thought that pretending to be someone's friend because his family is depressed was a good idea. His eyes graze over my skin.  
  
Suddenly, a lightbulb glows. I grab a pen from my backpack and start writing.  
  
_Give them no reason to stare  
No slipping up if you slip away  
_ _So I got nothing to share  
No, I got nothing to say_  
  
"How's this?" I show Connor the paper. His stare is blank but focused. Maybe the words don't flow well. Maybe they don't make sense. Maybe Connor hates it.  
  
"I like it," he mumbles. "Though...do _you_ like it?"  
  
I re-read the words and feel a weight pull on me. From a different perspective, it would look...cynical. Not even in a poetic way. It just looks like a really depressed dude succumbing to the fact that his life doesn't matter. Who would wanna listen to a song with a message like that?  
  
Though, in a way, I guess reading them _does_ make me feel better. Those words are outside of my body now. Other people have seen them, so I'm not alone. I hope this is what Dr Sherman was intending, because if it wasn't, then his plan kind of backfired.  
  
"...yeah. I like it."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Mhm."  
  
I twirl the pen around my fingers, Connor goes back to biting his nails (I guess nail biting is another thing we have in common). I can't even tell if this is my doing or if Connor is just as awkward as me. The air feels like it's choking me; I didn't know fresh air could be so suffocating.  
  
What's that thing that people do when there's awkward silence? Ah, right. Talk. I have to _talk_ to Connor. But what is there to talk about? How to make the song sound more nihilistic than it already is? I have enough experience to write a thousand songs about how life is hard for me, and that's not the best thing for Connor to hear right now. At least, I don't think it is...  
  
"So, h-how are you?" I ask meekly.  
  
It takes Connor a second to register. "Huh?"  
  
"Um...how are you- doing?"  
  
"Uh, I don't know," he shrugs. Shit.  
  
"You- you don't know?"  
  
"How good can you feel when you tried to kill yourself a week before?"  
  
Either Connor is genuinely thinking this or he really, _really_ doesn't want to talk. Is it because it's me he's talking to? I can't say I blame him; I don't know if I would want to talk to me, either. But he keeps glancing at me as if I can't see, scanning me like I'm an unknown item in a bagging area. Maybe I'm a mystery that he's trying to solve. He doesn't seem to be aware that to solve a mystery, you need to ask questions.  
  
If I twirl the pen anymore, it's going to fly out of my hand. I grip it and take a breath. "Your parents are nice."  
  
To my surprise, Connor scoffs. "If you say so."  
  
I look at him with a raised brow. "A-are they not?"  
  
"I mean, I guess. Didn't you hear them on Saturday? You were there, you knew they were fighting."  
  
"Well...yeah, but don't most families fight?"  
  
"Evan," Connor smirks snidely. It's like I can feel his eyes roll. "Jesus. You must have a really weird family."  
  
My skin prickles. I haven't heard myself in the context of a 'family' in a long time. It doesn't feel right anymore. In a way, I don't think it's ever felt right. "Um...yeah. It- it's just my mom, though. A-and me."  
  
I see Connor's face drop, eyes widening to reveal just how piercing they actually are. "Oh...I didn't...shit, I'm sorry-"  
  
"It's okay, I'm used to it," I wish I wasn't. It's been like this for ten years, but my heart keeps telling me that I'll never get used to it, and that it should go back to how it used to be. Too bad I'm not a time traveller.  
  
Once again, there's silence, but I think I'm okay with it. Just for a second.  
  
"...they don't always fight," Connor mutters, almost sheepishly, interrupting the silence. "Sometimes they just tolerate each other. It just happens so much, y'know? Like...it's hard to remember what their voices sound like when they're not screaming."  
  
I scratch my neck, suddenly feeling very itchy. "Jesus."  
  
"And my sister's not much better-" Connor sits forward, having found his second wind, and I copy him, perking up at the mention of Zoe. "Ever since I came home from the hospital, she's been looking at me in this way like she fucking hates me. Like, I'm sorry I didn't die? It's not like I wanted to live either, why do you think it happened in the first place?"  
  
I'm frozen. Truly, what can someone say in a situation like this? I can't even fathom what Connor must be feeling right now. Thinking your sister hates you for surviving a suicide attempt? It only serves to make my heart more confused about Zoe. "God, I'm...I'm sorry."  
  
"It's fine..." then, to my surprise, Connor chuckles. It's quiet, but it's not malicious. "I'm used to it."  
  
It's like he's finding humour in something he shouldn't.  
  
I laugh too, the weight on my chest suddenly lifting a little bit. I look at the lyrics in front of me, and they're still daunting, but I guess I don't have to worry about losing ammo now. If I were a gun, I'd be a water pistol and Connor would be an entire AK-47.  
  
Jared would laugh at that.  
  
As the sky starts getting darker, I dog-ear the paper in an attempt to think of what else I could write. Thankfully, the ideas keep coming.  
  
_Step out, step out of the sun if you keep getting burned..._


	9. Because of You (Kelly Clarkson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because of you  
i am afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look I'm not horrendously late uploading a chapter this time!! I thought this chapter would go by smoothly but as it turns out, writing familial conflict is a lot harder than you'd think :D
> 
> TW: Death threats (sort of)

I never thought that a door could be so daunting, let alone a door painted bright red in a middle class suburban town full of white picket fences. Yet, as I stood in front of the Murphys' house once again, I felt the back of my neck heat up like a kettle full of water.  
  
Circumstances have changed. No longer is Connor the ghost in my life; his entire _family_ is haunting me. I can't do anything without worrying that they're peering over me. When I pass by my kitchen, I can't help but imagine what Cynthia would be cooking if she were in there, and if Connor would eat it. When I watch TV, I wonder what kind of shows Mr Murphy watches. I listen to music and I think about Zoe playing me a song on her guitar, and my stomach fills with butterflies. I don't say any of this to my mom, though I can tell by the way she looks at me that she wants me to spill what's on my mind.  
  
Maybe one day. What would happen if she knew? Would she hate me? Would everyone hate me if they found out?  
  
Does Connor hate me?  
  
I'm now in Connor's living room, watching Cynthia as she flicks through the sheets of paper in her hands. Our creative well ran dry after a while, so we couldn’t write much more than what we already had, but the look on Cynthia’s face says that it’s more than enough.  
  
”I didn’t...” Cynthia’s breath wavers, her eyes scanning the lyrics. “I didn’t know you two were this close. Connor, why didn’t you tell me about this?”  
  
I look at Connor, and his gaze meets mine, and I swear I can see a drop of sweat roll down his face. "I don't know. Just never thought to bring it up, I guess."  
  
"But it's so good!" Cynthia is now standing from her seat. Her smile glows in our direction. "It's...a little depressing, but it's really good! You have a talent for this, you really do!"  
  
I attempt to hide my growing grin at her comments, even though they're directed at Connor. It feels dirty to smile at something like this.  
  
Cynthia keeps glancing at the paper, face faltering with every re-read. One minute she's smiling at something she must be telling herself in her head, the next minute she's frowning as if she's realised that she's done something wrong. The whole time, the paper is clutched in her hands. "You and Zoe would make a good duo, I think. Have you talked to her about it?"  
  
I can feel Connor's face drop before he says anything.  
  
"I...I don't- know..."  
  
"Really! You can write the lyrics and Zoe can make the music for it! Imagine how successful you could become!"  
  
I briefly imagine Zoe and I creating our own music together. Me with a pen and notebook in hand, her strumming chords on her guitar. I don't know who would sing but it's leaning more in favour of Zoe. I don't think my voice is that good.  
  
My heart almost leaps out of my chest when I hear a third voice from behind me. And not just any voice...  
  
"What's going- oh..." says Zoe, pauses when she sees me in her living room. "Hi."  
  
The red quickly drains from my face. I wonder for a split second if she overheard my imagination. "H-hi."  
  
"Zoe, come look at this!" Cynthia eagerly calls, running over to her daughter before she even gets the chance to move. "These are the songs that Connor wrote with Evan! Aren't they good?"  
  
I feel my feet turn to ice as Zoe scans through the paper. Maybe people reading my thoughts only works if it's people I _want_ reading them seeing, and I realise that I really, _really_ don't want Zoe to see. But while I expect her to look at me with contempt, she keeps her eyes glued to the paper. I can't tell what she's thinking, but her face softening surprises me even more. Does she understand? Does she see through me?  
  
Then I see her look at Connor and remember that this song was written by the both of us.  
  
"...they're...something," she mumbles, lips pressed into a thin line. It's like she's holding back words. "Yeah."  
  
"You two should write something together!" Cynthia cheers, which makes both Zoe's and Connor's faces sink like an anchor. "You could become a little duo! When was the last time you two did something together anyway?"  
  
Zoe's feet are now shuffling on the floor. It doesn't help that Cynthia hands her the papers. "I don't know."  
  
"It'll be great! It'll be great to see you two spending time together again," Cynthia's grin is wider than I've seen before, but it's masking something else. Something sad. "You can talk about what you've been up to like when you were younger! Don't you agree, Connor?"  
  
Everyone's eyes land on him. I look down and notice that he's fiddling with the rings on his fingers. Every single one of them, at the same time. They don't even make a sound.  
  
"I'm going to the bathroom," he says, voice deader than a house fly, and disappears up the stairs. Now it's just me, Cynthia and Zoe, none of us really knowing what just happened. Zoe looks no different, but that masked sadness in Cynthia's smile has come out fully.  
  
"Um...w-well, we'll see when he comes back. I'm sure he's excited about the idea. Evan, honey, would you like a drink?"  
  
I simply shake my head with a 'no thank you' and Cynthia nods, yet she walks off into the kitchen anyway. I think that for a second, I have time to breathe, and then I remember that Zoe is still there. Though when I look at her, expecting her to be looking at me, she's still scanning the paper in her hands. She doesn't look like she's concentrating on the lyrics, but rather, something in her head.  
  
I cautiously approach her, feeling my palms begin to sweat. If only my pants were absorbent enough to hold it all. "Um, so, how are you?"  
  
She doesn't respond. She doesn't even change her expression. She keeps looking at the paper like there's some sort of code imbedded in the lyrics that she's trying to solve. If there's treasure to be found, I don't know where the X is.  
  
Finally, she puts the paper down, but she doesn't look me in the eye. "Connor signed your cast."  
  
It's the same tone she used when she first told me her parents invited me to over for dinner.  
  
I haven't looked directly at my cast in a while. I feel like the longer I look, the more likely I'll see Connor's name branded on my skin when it's time for the cast to come off. When I look at it now, the letters feel bigger than ever. Are they screaming at me? Or am I screaming at myself?  
  
I trace my finger across each letter. It scratches. "He...didn't leave much room, huh?"  
  
"He always writes like that," Zoe says through an exhale. "Every time he's gotta write something, he writes it huge. He John Hancock's _everything_."  
  
That makes me chuckle. "That- that must make things difficult."  
  
Zoe goes back to looking through the lyrics. "Among other things."  
  
I didn't think she found her comment funny, but she's hiding something, and part of me tells me that it's my fault. My hands are so sweaty that they feel like I've just washed them without drying. My chest feels worse.   
  
"Um..." my mouth says before I can stop it. "Are you okay?"  
  
_There's_ the glare I was expecting. It pierces through me like I've been stabbed with the world's sharpest knife. "Why haven't you shown up before?"  
  
She knows. I gulp, and I hope it's not audible. "Wh-what do you mean?"  
  
"If you've been friends with him for all this time, why hasn't he invited you over before?"  
  
"Um..." My throat feels like it's trying to choke me. "He's- he doesn't like to talk about me much."  
  
Zoe's no longer concerned with reading the lyrics, and instead starts pacing back and forth. "He knows how much mom's been wanting to know about his life, yet he won't even tell her about you. It's typical."  
  
"I mean-" I try to avoid twitching nervously. "D-does he have to tell you? Sorry, I just, that's-"  
  
"Yes! Yes, he has to tell us!" Zoe's arms are flying all over the place, and I'm nervous the paper is going to launch out of her hand. "He has to tell us so he can stop sulking all the God damn time! It's driving me insane."  
  
"S-sulking?"  
  
"I can tell he's tired of mom nagging him 24/7, but if he wants it to stop, he needs to tell her already."  
  
It feels as if my stomach is caving in on itself, like every word Zoe says etches into my anxiety. My hands have turned into waterfalls. "Hey a-are you okay?"  
  
The flailing stops, and I'm about to breathe, but then Zoe turns to me with an expression that feels like a mix of anger and tiredness. The tiredness is new. "Why is everyone so eager to side with Connor?"  
  
I think this is the most confused I've been the last few days. "H-huh?"  
  
"Everyone's constantly tip-toeing around him like he's some damn child, I don't get it! They're acting like- because he almost died, they're acting like he's _totally innocent_ or like they're afraid he's going to drop dead any minute or like he-"  
  
"Wait, wait!" now it's my turn to do the flailing, sweaty palms and all. "Did he do something?"  
  
There's a small smile on Zoe's face, but like Cynthia's, it feels fake. "So he acts differently around you, huh?"  
  
My heartbeat increases by the second. "I don't..."  
  
"I told you, he's a psychopath," she comes closer to me. "He's constantly screaming at all of us. He punches walls, he knocks over furniture, he calls my mom a _bitch_, he's a fucking nightmare. Everyone acts like the fucking Brady Bunch now that he's out of the hospital, all because he's not banging on my door and threatening to kill me every night!"  
  
For a second, I swear my heart stops all together. "...he what?"  
  
"Yeah," there’s some relief in Zoe’s face. Probably none in mine. “He’s a psychopath. I don’t know why everyone is treating him like a damn prince. He's not a prince, he's a freakshow.”  
  
If my feet got any colder, I'd be able to chip away the ice with a pickaxe. I know that Connor is...different than most people, but to go as far as threatening to kill his own sister?   
  
My head swims. I wrote songs with him. "He...he didn't act like-"  
  
"No, of course he didn't," Zoe snaps. "He only acts like that around his family. He's a bad person."  
  
"I don't-"  
  
"Honestly, I wish you never found him in that parking lot. Maybe then things would be a lot easier."  
  
Even the clock on the wall stops ticking. My eyes wonder to the kitchen, like my subconscious is begging for Cynthia to be oblivious to what was just said. I don't see her come towards us, at least. When I look back at Zoe, most of he anger has melted away in place of something I haven't seen on her face yet. I don't know what it is, but it looks...sad. Confused.  
  
My hands have stopped sweating, instead choosing to fiddle with the hem of my shirt. "That's...th-that's kind of an intense thing to say."  
  
But Zoe doesn't respond. Instead, she shoves the paper into my chest and turns around to head upstairs. Her footsteps are light and quick, until they're stopped by a gasp. My heart starts beating again as I hear her mention Connor's name, followed by heavier footsteps directed above me and getting louder toward the kitchen.  
  
My legs act on instinct, and I find myself going up the stairs too, but not before the pictures on the wall catch my eye again. Every picture of Connor and Zoe when they were kids, standing next to each other and smiling. They look perfect, like kids from an old toy commercial in the sixties. Maybe it's not just Connor that wears a mask.  
  
I find myself in the hallway upstairs again, but Connor and Zoe are nowhere to be found. Zoe's door is closed like last time, and my heart tells me I should check on her, until I notice that Connor's door is once again ajar. Inside is dark, just like last time. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I knock on Connor's door.   
  
"Can I come in...?"  
  
No response.  
  
Maybe this is Connor's way of telling me he doesn't want me around. Maybe he never wants anyone around. Maybe I should have never come here, and took the songs home and ripped them up and asked my mom to cancel my appointments with Dr. Sherman because all they've done so far is cause problems.  
  
But the quiet shuffling from inside tempts me to pry the door open and enter.  
  
"Connor...?" I call timidly, and notice a small lump underneath the blanket. Resting on the pillows is a speck of brown hair, coiling around itself like snakes. He's reduced to a speck again.  
  
He shuffles, but remains silent. I really wish I could float in water, because my head is swimming.  
  
"...d-did you...hear that?" I grip onto my shirt. "What Zoe and I were..."  
  
I almost jump when I see a pair of eyes look back at me. "I was at the top of the staircase. I heard everything."  
  
"Oh..."  
  
"It's not like I'm not used to hearing stuff like that, anyway."  
  
It feels as if with every word, the room dims a little, like the darkness is the water my head is swimming in. Any further and the pressure is going to make it explode. I can't even breathe properly, otherwise I'll drown.  
  
Somehow I still manage to inhale. "I-is is true? The...the stuff that she told me?"  
  
That seems to have finally stirred something in him, as the blankets shift enough where I can see Connor's torso. "Look, at this point I don't fucking know. I...I scare her sometimes, yeah, but I don't wanna fucking _kill_ her. I don't know where she got that from."  
  
Against my better judgement, I step further and close the door. "Wh-why do you scare her?"  
  
"I don't mean to!" Connor's head lifts from the pillow. "It just happens! All I do is scare people. It's like my fucking job or something."  
  
As I'm about to tell him that he doesn't scare me, I notice my hesitance to move any closer to the bed, and I feel disappointed in myself. "D-does this...happen a lot?"  
  
"Why are you asking so many questions?" there's venom in his voice, but it's a small dose. "You don't even know us. _Yes_, it happens a lot, and I don't like it anymore than you do or she does or _anyone else_ does, but as long as I'm alive, it's going to happen, so what's the fucking point of trying to be anything else?"  
  
It's as if the words are being pushed back into my mouth, not that I know what those words are anyway. Has Connor been holding this in for a while? Have people told him this? My chest feels like it's going to cave in soon.  
  
"That...that sounds awful..."  
  
I expect Connor to remain angry, but he just sighs and lies back down. "Yeah, it is."  
  
I shuffle my feet on the carpet and, though it's dark, look around Connor's room. It's not _completely_ off from what I expected, but I think TV still overhyped my expectations of what the 'troubled' kid's bedroom would look like. Even in the dark, I can see that the walls are a light pink, maybe even beige. He has a desk that's kind of messy, but most of the mess is in the trash can. The closest thing the room's got to a stereotype are the music posters on the walls, all of which are for emo bands from the early 2000s. One that catches my eye is dedicated to The All American Rejects.  
  
I flashback to a time where I overheard Zoe playing guitar after band practice. She looked frustrated with something, and started strumming to herself. She was playing an All American Rejects song.  
  
I look back at Connor's door. It's a wonder how they're so close to each other, yet act like they're a million miles apart. My foot starts tapping the ground. "Maybe you could...talk to her?"  
  
I can feel Connor's eyes burning into me before I even look. "Talk to my _sister_?"  
  
I nod. Connor tries to scoff but it comes out as more of a huff.  
  
"She's not gonna fucking listen. What can I even say?"  
  
"Maybe just..." my hands start to sweat again. Connor's room is stuffy. "...apologise?"  
  
'_Apologise for what?_' I think to myself. My heart sinks further at the fact that I'm asking that not because Connor doesn't have anything to apologise for, but because he likely has _too much_ to apologise for. He's right, I'm not a part of his family, and I'm going even further in than I thought possible...but this isn't right. Even without being a part of the family, I can see the hurt everyone is going through.  
  
To my surprise, Connor sits up and looks directly at me. I fight the urge to flinch. "I don't- I don't _want_ to do the stuff I do, but it just happens, y'know? Also, she always says some shit that she doesn't need to say."  
  
I raise a brow at that. "What do you mean?"  
  
"That slamming on the door thing?" he gestures to nothing in particular. "I only did that because we got into a fight and she wouldn't leave me the fuck alone. Like, I kept trying to walk away and she wouldn't stop telling me how horrible I was to her and shit."  
  
I'm thankful it's dark in Connor's room, otherwise he'd be able to see just how sweaty my palms are. "W-wow...but still, is- is that worth you threatening to kill her?"  
  
I flinch away as Connor leans forward. "I _didn't_, though! She made that shit up! I just...all I did was bang on her door, I didn't..."  
  
The more he talks, the more deflated he becomes, and I don't think it's because he's getting tired. His voice is telling me that something is weighing on his mind. Maybe his heart, too.  
  
I take a breath, possibly the biggest one I've taken today. "O-okay, look. It...it sounds like you two have, um...some stuff to work through, a-and I know that taking the first step is hard...but...i-it can't go on forever."  
  
There's a minute of silence. I don't know why, but the room feels like its becoming brighter.  
  
Connor's face is once again covered by his hair, but I can see him fiddling with the skin on his knuckles. "She's not gonna believe me. I'm too fucked up to be believed anymore. My life can be summed up with a damn DSM page."  
  
I shut my eyes at Connor's stubbornness, but sigh. "I get that, but...she's your sister. Y-you gotta at least try."  
  
The cogs must be turning in Connor's head again, because he doesn't move for a solid minute. It's agonizing to be here. I knew this project wouldn't feel good, but I didn't know it would feel like a pile of rocks crashing onto my back with little to no reprieve.  
  
Eventually, Connor stands up from the bed, his shirt being tugged up in the process. You know those free sculpting apps that let you create 3D objects? It's like someone took the smoothing tool and used it on Connor's stomach. It's almost concave in how flat it is.  
  
I watch as he opens the door and slowly makes his way over to Zoe's room. I don't know if my chills are from the door being opened or from the anticipation of what's to come. Against my better judgement (again), I crawl out of Connor's room and listen in.  
  
"What do you want?" I hear Zoe say, and she sounds like she's in no mood to talk. Connor's silence in response is enough to make me consider leaving entirely.  
  
"Well?" she snaps.  
  
"I'm sorry." he mutters.  
  
It's as if I can feel everyone's heartbeat stop at once. It's too much. My legs are shaking and my head is spinning, and I slink past Connor as quietly and as quickly as I can, praying to every star above that they can work something out.  
  
I don't like the idea that I'd never be able to see Zoe again.


End file.
